


Drive You Home

by zjofierose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Future Fic, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Unrequited Love, being a grown up is lonely sometimes, everyone needs to learn how to use their words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 18:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10576656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: It's been years since Tyler spent any time with Dylan, for no particular reason. Just... life gets in the way, you know? They're all grown-ups now, and Dylan's career has really taken off, and Tyler's happy enough doing what he's doing, but he can't say he hasn't missed his friend.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this something like two and a half years ago for a big bang that then kind of imploded, and it's just sat on my hard drive unfinished and nagging at the back of my brain ever since. Paintedlandscape, bless her long-suffering heart, tried very hard to help me fix its many issues, and I think I've mostly succeeded? It's maybe not fully what I hoped, but I'm posting it as a homage to the adage _"done" is better than "perfect"_. Still, maybe don't squint at it too hard, just in case.

Tyler’s all the way across the room when he hears that laugh, and he can't help but smile as he sets his glass on the table to be refilled. 

“More champagne, sir?”

He holds his hand about halfway up the glass. “Just that much, please.” The waiter nods and pours, then takes his bottle and moves discreetly off to the clutch of well-heeled guests talking and posturing to Tyler's left.

He picks up his glass and takes a sip, then turns, scanning the crowd. It's an outdoor soiree sort of thing, very chic, of course, and he pulls at his bow-tie discreetly. His feet hurt. 

He takes another sip, and then there's that laugh again, full-bodied and surprised. He looks over to his right, and sure enough, across the room is Dylan, tie loosened, glass in hand, and head thrown back in delight. Tyler can't see what or who he's laughing at, but he also can't help the automatic smile that pulls behind the rim of his glass at that sound. He never did get over how funny it was that Dylan always seemed surprised by his own laughs, like they came out without consulting him first, too strong to wait for politesse.

Someone knocks into his elbow, and he loses sight of Dylan in the crowd, wanders back past the table to snag another hors d'oeuvre. He's between projects, so he's letting himself have a night off his macrobiotic regimen in favor of the tasty little crab and cream cheese bites the caterers keep bringing out. He's had just enough champagne to feel that his cheeks are warm, and he can't help smiling again as he pops another morsel into his mouth.

It's no surprise that Dylan's here; it is an Oscar party, after all, and he was, in fact, one of the nominees. Tyler'd seen the movie; a strange but riveting film that had Oscar-bait written all over it. Dylan was amazing, of course; luminous as he moved from blinding fury to abject despair to soul-deep devotion. He hadn't won, but Tyler didn't really think anyone had expected him to. Just being nominated at twenty nine was an accomplishment enough, really—he still has many more movies left to claim his shiny golden statue.

Tyler's making his way toward the wall, away from the tempting little California rolls on a platter, when he's grabbed from behind and thumped solidly on the chest, his champagne sloshing as he stumbles in surprise.

“Hoech! Oh my god, I had no idea you were here! How the hell  _ are  _ you, man?”

He finds his balance and turns, putting him a foot from Dylan's grinning face. Dylan lets him right his glass, then whacks him exuberantly on the arm again before hauling him in for a full-on hug. Tyler goes with it, wraps his arm around Dylan's back, tries not to dump the remaining champagne down either of their pants, and just...it's nice. He hasn't seen Dylan in a long time, and they were close, back in the day, and Dylan is warm and solid and must be wearing some sort of expensive aftershave, and his stupid hair is still a bird's nest on his head, and maybe it's good that Tyler not finish the rest of that champagne anyway.

He pulls back, and Dylan's cheeks are flushed and eyes are shining, so probably he's not the only one who should maybe switch to water now. He sets his glass down to take a better look.

“God, Dylan, you look great, buddy. I saw you up there—congratulations!”

The flush is instantaneous, and there's the Dylan he knows, looking down at his shoes while he squirms at praise. 

“Thanks, man. It was just a really great project, you know?” He looks up again, and his face is older, more composed, but his cheeks are still pink and his eyes still warm. “Amazing script, really great director.”

Tyler nods. These things make a difference, it's true. But. “Yeah, but you were something else. Just take it, buddy.” He claps Dylan on the arm. “You did good.”

Dylan drops his head and butts it into Tyler's shoulder, coming up laughing. 

“Thanks, man. It means a lot.” 

There's a moment of silence between them, the lights of the party reflecting in Dylan's eyes, his mouth as open as it always is, one, two, three breaths, and Tyler's about to say something, but then there's a hand on Dylan's arm, and he's being pulled away to meet someone else, to make small talk with people who might give him a job. 

“Hey, hey, Tyler—we should hang out. Let's get a beer.”

“Yeah, yeah. That would be good.” He can't help the hand that comes up as Dylan is being yanked firmly backward by a woman that must be his manager, but he sets it on his abandoned champagne flute so that it doesn't reach out too far. 

“Call me! We'll do it!” Dylan looks insistent, flailing a bit as he stumbles off before he pulls himself together and straightens his tie, so Tyler nods, and mimes a phone with his hand, and then Dylan's lost in the crowd again, moving off toward the beautiful and rich.

Tyler downs the last of his champagne.

–

He lets it wait for two weeks, and he knows it's silly, but he doesn't want to make a big deal out of it. It was nice seeing Dylan again, but that's normal. They had been in each others pockets, once, back in the beginning. When they were all in Atlanta, and living together. Even after, for a while, they'd still hang out from time to time, and they still were friends on set. 

But these things happen, and he knows it. People, especially in this business, go their separate ways. You grow up, you book different jobs, you end up in different countries, the timing doesn't work, whatever. The internet helps, sure, but favoriting someone's tweets only does so much after a while.

So he gives it a bit, he doesn't want to be a pest. Calls Dylan up one afternoon when he's in his kitchen, eating his eggs and greens as he stares out his window into the backyard. It goes to voicemail.

“Hey, D! It was really great to bump into you the other day! Congrats again!” He pulls the phone away to make a face at himself. “Anyway, let's grab a beer when you have a chance. Call me!”

He hangs up before he can say anything dumber, and finishes his food, ignoring his phone where it sits on the edge of the counter.

–

Six days later he comes home from a run to see the little voicemail notification on his phone, but he figures it's probably just his mom, so he goes ahead and showers and makes dinner before he settles down on the couch with his plate, phone, and remote. 

“Hey, man! It was so great to see you! I'm in...shit, somewhere in Australia, I'm not sure where right now, they just drove me out here, you know? Anyway, I'm down under for a couple months doing a thing, but I'm back in LA in June! Maybe we can catch up then? Or maybe...” there are muffled sounds in the background, and Tyler can't help but notice that there's an edge to Dylan's voice under his usual exuberance. He sounds tired. “...maybe we could Skype or something? I don't know what the reception's like out here for that, but we could...” The call drops, and Tyler's left staring at his phone.

He replays the message twice, then looks at a calendar. It's early March now. Three months till June. That's not so bad. And maybe...Skype could work. Or email? 

He sets a reminder to call his carrier and make sure unlimited international texting is still part of his plan.

–

He texts Dylan a week later, but gets no response till mid April, when there's another fuzzy message in his voicemail, this one showing up when he checks his phone in the morning over his daily cup of coffee. There's a ton of background noise, club sounds and people shouting over the static of an international call. Dylan's voice shows up about 30 seconds in, clearly trashed.

“Hey Posey! Heard you had another kid, man! Fucking congratulations!” There's a moment of static-y noise again, then Dylan's voice re-emerges. “Oh shit, haha, I got the wrong Tyler! Hey! Hoechles! I miss you, buddy! When I get back, we're gonna catch up, ok? I think...oh god...” Dylan's voice fades out to the unmistakeable sound of someone retching, “oh fuck, my shoes, man, why'd you have to yak on my shoes? Such an asshole, come on, let's get you outside.” The phone beeps to signify the end of the message.

He checks the clock, does the time zone math. It's three in the morning on the east coast of Australia. 

He doesn't call.

–

He waits two days, then sends a text right before he falls asleep.

_ Hey man, sounds like you were having a pretty epic night there! Tell Posey congrats on his new baby for me.  _

He's mostly forgotten (mostly) about it when he gets a picture text ten days later. The image is blurry, but it's clearly Dylan in a bathroom mirror, grinning at himself as he holds his phone in front of him. His face is tanned and dirty, and his hair has been shorn down to the roots again, leaving his head dark and fuzzy and round.

_ doin' a post-apocalyptic thing here in the desert. whaddya think, derek? stiles rides again! _

Tyler takes another look at the picture. The effect is surprising; where the buzzcut had made Stiles seem younger and a little vulnerable, the opposite is true now. Dylan's wearing some kind of knock-off fatigue uniform, and with the tan and his new, adult features that Tyler still isn't used to, he looks dangerous, intense, even with his trademark goofy smile. It's mesmerizing, and Tyler finds himself pulling it up randomly throughout the day, trying to catalog the differences in his friend's face.

He waits to text back until the middle of the night Australia time.

_ Looks good! Stiles grew up. Hope you've still got your baseball bat! _

–

The next text comes faster, right as he's settling into bed the following night.

_ you bet your balls I do. stiles is kicking zombie ass left and right. the hair people don't do as good a job as you did, though. they mashed my ear all wonky. how am I supposed to hear zombies coming with a wonky ear?? _

He laughs out loud. Stiles would smash every single zombie over the head with his bat, shouting about it the whole time. He smiles fondly at his phone.

-

They'd all been living together, but hadn't known each other that well yet, not really. Filming was a few weeks in, but there were still months to go. It had been a late night; Posey and Dylan had wrapped earlier than he had, and had been crashed out on the couch with Mario Kart still on the TV when he let himself in. 

He'd headed straight for the shower, peeling off his clothes and shouldering under the spray, letting the hot water soak in and run down his face before scrubbing his hands over his head in an attempt to wake up. He'd soaped and shampooed and turned off the water, rubbing the towel over his skin before wiping a spot clear on the mirror and peering at himself. He'd wait till he got up to shave. Call time wasn't till one tomorrow, and shaving at night was really just pointless anymore. He wrapped the towel around his waist, and was halfway through brushing his teeth when there was a knock on the door. 

He opened it without thinking, and there was Dylan, still rubbing sleep from an eye as he fanned the burst of steam away from his face.

“Uh. Hey.”

Tyler scrubbed at his teeth, and twitched his eyebrows up in inquiry.

“Uh. Yeah. Um. I was wondering...” Dylan wrenched his eyes away from Tyler's chest, and Tyler couldn't decide whether he wanted to laugh, or just shut the door. Dylan wasn't usually this blatant about checking him out, and Tyler never took it seriously anyway; he was pretty sure it was more just casual fascination than anything approaching actual interest, but it still caught him off-guard sometimes. “Um. Will you buzz my head?”

Tyler turned around, spit, and rinsed. When he stood up and glanced in the mirror, Dylan was still there in the doorway, eyes meeting his in the glass.

“How come?”

Dylan grimaced. “The lady they've got doing it, she yanks my ears. And she doesn't get it even. Like, if I have to rock the buzzcut, at least it can be a good buzzcut, you know? And I'd like to keep my ears where they are.”

Tyler looked at him appraisingly.

“Why me?”

Dylan gave him an incredulous look. “Would  _ you _ let Posey near your head with a sharp object?”

He laughed without thinking. “Ok. Point. But what about Crystal?”

“Yeah, she'd be good, but I need it tonight, and I forgot until now.” Dylan shrugged. “I've got a buzzer, but if you don't want to, it's ok.” He made a face. “I'll live.”

“No, it's fine. Just...let me get some pants. I'll be right back.”

Dylan nodded, already heading for the bathroom cabinet.

–

By the time Tyler got back, Dylan was sitting on the closed toilet facing the wall, the buzzer plugged in next to the sink. His head was drooping forward, and Tyler was not at all sure that he was still awake.

“Hey. You ok to sit there for a minute? I'll try to be quick, but I've never done this.”

Dylan shook himself, sat up a little straighter. “Yeah, it's fine. And you've got steady hands, you'll do a good job. It's not like it's complicated, just...don't yank on me.”

Tyler considered the form in front of him, then grabbed his still-damp towel from his neck, wrapping it around Dylan's shoulders and tucking it into itself. Dylan shuddered with the sudden warmth.

“Mm, you always smell so fucking good.”

Tyler laughed and clicked on the buzzer.

“Seriously, what the hell is that? You didn't shave, so it's not shaving stuff.”

“I don't know. Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's just the smell of awesome.” He laid the blade at the back of Dylan's neck, sliding the teeth up the tendon into the dark line at the base of his skull. Hairs fell onto the white towel in a silent, dark flurry. 

Dylan laughed. “That's  _ totally _ it. Why didn't I guess?” He tipped his head forward and to the side, and Tyler glided the buzzer up the side of his head. He settled his left palm onto the crown of Dylan's skull, and couldn't help but notice how it fit in the curve of his hand. He let his fingers wrap around the form of it, tilting Dylan's head first left, then right, forward and back as he concentrated. Dylan's arms were tanned against the white of the porcelain toilet tank, but his scalp through the newly buzzed lines was pale, fragile and untouched. 

Tyler unclipped the attachment from the buzzer and carefully cleaned up the back of Dylan's neck, eyeing the line of hair critically, making it as straight as possible. He slid his hand up the side of Dylan's neck to his ear, cupping it in his left hand as his right continued the sharp edge of hair up and over the curve where the soft cartilage met bone. 

“Hey.” He switched off the buzzer and shook Dylan's shoulder.  “Wake up. Take a shower so you don't track little hairs all over.”

“Hnnngg.”

“C'mon. Up.”

He carefully unwrapped the towel from Dylan's shoulders, folding it in on itself so that none of the hair fell to the floor. Some of it had fallen down the side of the toilet as he worked in spite of the towel, but oh well. He'd sweep it up tomorrow. 

Dylan had made it upright, though he looked pretty wobbly. Tyler tossed the towel into the hamper and looked him over with a critical eye. 

“Thanks, man.” Dylan rubbed an absentminded hand over his head as he pulled back the shower curtain and started the faucet running. “That's much better.”

–

The texts are sporadic, but they make plans to go see a game when Dylan gets back. He's in town for two weeks almost exactly before he's headed to New York to film something else, so Tyler gets tickets for a Angels/A's game two days before Dylan flies back out. He sticks them to the fridge with the howling wolf magnet Adelaide gave him years ago, and can't help but look at them every day.

–

Dylan makes it back, at least judging from Twitter. There's a sudden flurry of grinning photos with Posey cluttering up Posey’s feed, and at least a couple paparazzi shots of him falling out of bars at two in the morning. Tyler thinks the jet-lag must be a real bitch. Dylan looks exhausted in all the shots, his eyes bleary and hair flying everywhere.

Tyler catches him on a late-night interview at the beginning of week two, promoting the project he just finished shooting in Oz. The make-up artist has done a great job making him look chipper, and he's every inch the charming young professional. He laughs in all the right places, bats his eyes at the screaming crowd. 

Tyler watches him as he eats his small bowl of late-night unsalted butter-free popcorn. Dylan's perfect, just like he's always been heading for. It's just the one moment when he thinks the camera's not on him where he ducks his head and lets his face draw closed.

–

The day of the game, Tyler answers his buzzing phone to hear Dylan's panicked voice on the other end.

“Tyler, listen,  _ fuck _ , they changed my flight!”

He doesn't get it at first, still contemplating the shoelace he's tying as he tries to keep the phone from slipping down his shoulder.

“Yeah? To when?”

“God, to fucking, like, four hours from now.  _ Fuck _ ! I'm not even packed!”

Oh. 

“Oh. So...”

“Yeah, Tyler, I am so  _ incredibly _ sorry...” Dylan's voice sounds heartbroken, and Tyler's making reassuring sounds before he even realizes it, yanking the laces tight and sitting up straight.

“Hey, no, it's not your fault. I'll just...take Tanner or something.”

“Yeah, do that. That'll be good. I just...” Dylan pauses, and there's the sound of clothes being tossed on a bed, a closet door banging. “I was looking forward to hanging out.”

“Yeah, no, me too. Of course.” Tyler gestures with his hands, rolls his eyes at himself. “But it's ok, we'll just catch up...sometime.”

“Yeah. Yeah, listen, I better go. I don't even know how I'm gonna get to LAX. Fuck.”

“I could drive you.”

“What?”

“Yeah, you know.” Tyler inhales through his nose, exhales through his mouth, looks at his watch. “If I leave now, I can swing by and grab you, and drop you off at Departures.”

“You'd do that?” Dylan's voice sounds surprised and pleased.

“Sure, why not?” He shrugs. “Not doing anything else this afternoon. You focus on packing. You're still at your old place, right?”

“Oh, no, actually.” The assorted sounds from Dylan's end are getting louder. “I moved like a year back, I'm over in Silver Lake now. But that's closer to you, right?” 

Tyler thinks for a minute, grabbing his keys off the hook. “Yeah. Yeah, ok. I'm getting in the car now. Text me your address, and I'll be there in an hour or so.”

“Fuck,  _ thanks _ man, you're a lifesaver.” Tyler smiles at the relief in Dylan's voice. It makes him sound years younger. “I'll see you then.”

–

Tyler makes it over earlier than he thinks he will; the traffic's light for mid-day; so he stops through a Starbucks drive-thru and gets two large mint teas, a bagel, and an orange-mango juice, before letting his phone navigate him to Dylan's new place.

It's unassuming from the outside, but it's a full-sized house; Tyler doesn't know if Dylan owns it or not, but it's large enough to be comfortable, while still small enough to blend in with the neighbors. It's got a fence around it, and the blinds are all drawn.

He parks at the foot of the driveway and takes a couple of deep breaths before pulling the key from the ignition and getting out of the car. 

There's a buzzer at the gate, so he pushes it, and after a second hears the telltale click of the lock releasing. He pushes through the gate and walks up the little path to the door on the side of the house. He knocks, but there's no answer, so he tries the knob. The door swings silently open, so he walks in.

“Dylan?”

The main room is large and airy, with a couch, a TV, and a coffee table. There's nothing on the walls, and the one houseplant in the window across the room has clearly been dead for a while. He wonders how much time Dylan's actually spent here since he moved. 

The kitchen adjoins the living room on the left, with windows out to the front of the house facing the street. It's open plan, a large white bar dividing the length of the kitchen from the length of the living room. To the right there's a hallway leading dimly back, so he heads that way. 

“Hey, D? You here?”

There's a muffled thump from the room to his left. 

“Here! In here!”

He steps through the door just in time to see Dylan fling himself on top of a very full suitcase and yank on the zipper. He's red-faced and biting on his lip, but he catches sight of Tyler and throws his hands into the air. 

“You did come! My hero!”

Tyler smiles, and leans his shoulder against the wall.

“You bout ready? Traffic's not bad, but it'll still take an hour to get to LAX.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just gotta get this fucker shut.”

“Here, let me.” Tyler walks over and hauls the suitcase off the bed onto the floor. “I'll push, you zip.” He eyeballs it. It looks like the zipper will be strong enough to hold, if they can just get it to close all the way. There's also an attached strap that can be tightened around for extra security. 

He places his hands on either end of the top and leans forward, pushing down so that the tough fabric stretches out and down. Nothing happens for a second, so he glances up only to see that  Dylan's got his mouth open staring. For a second it's like old times again before Dylan shakes it off, laughs, and goes for the zipper toggle. 

It takes a little shifting around to get the thing all the way closed, but it gets there, and Dylan tightens the strap with a flourish before standing the suitcase up and pulling out the handle. 

“Thanks, man. My other stuff's just in the living room, and I've got my keys, so I think we're good.”

Tyler follows him out to the front of the house, the suitcase wheels rolling on the hardwood floor.

“Nice place.”

“Hey, thanks! Yeah, it's not bad. My sister helped me pick it out.” Dylan pauses to throw a jacket across the top of his bag and slip a backpack over his shoulder. “I like it fine, but I've hardly been here. Julia comes in and checks on it every couple weeks, but...yeah.” His voice falls, and his face looks tired again as he slides his sunglasses into place. “I'm done for a bit after this thing in New York. I'll be there for four months, but then I'll be back for Thanksgiving and Christmas and all of that.”

“You looking forward to being back?”

Dylan sighs. “Yeah. I am.”

–

Traffic is not as favorable between Dylan’s place and the airport, and Tyler has to concentrate on driving. Dylan sips his tea and talks intermittently, telling stories about Australia and people Tyler's never met, bitching about his agent, mentioning his family in passing. He doesn't ask questions, and Tyler's secretly relieved. He hasn't had much going on, really, and he's ok with that, but it also leaves him without a lot to say, socially.  He'd rather just listen to Dylan anyway.

They pull into the departures offloading area with 15 minutes left in Dylan's check-in time. Tyler puts it in park, and hops out to haul Dylan's suitcase out of the back while Dylan grabs his backpack and chugs the last of his tea. He closes the back and turns just in time for Dylan to fling his arms around Tyler's neck and cling.

Tyler staggers, but lets his hands come up and press into Dylan's shoulder blades. Dylan feels thin against him, wiry and strong, but a little too slim. 

“Hey, listen, thank you  _ so _ much. I really appreciate this. I'm sorry I couldn't come to the fucking ballgame, I really wanted to.”

“Don't worry about it.” Dylan smells really fucking good, and Tyler can't place it, it's something new. He takes a deep breath and presses Dylan closer. They used to touch all the time, living together, filming together, but he can't actually remember the last time before today that he's had his hands on Dylan. “Shit happens. Just, stay in touch, ok? Take care of yourself.”

“Yeah.” Dylan breathes into his neck for a second, raising the hairs at Tyler's nape. “Yeah, ok. And when I'm back—bro time.”

Tyler laughs, and lets him go. “You got it.”

Dylan grabs the handle of his suitcase and lifts his sunglasses to wink. 

“See you soon.”

-

He takes Tanner to the game. The Angels win. He texts Dylan a picture of the final score.

–

They text more over the next four months; Dylan's on the same continent, so there aren't the connectivity issues there were with the outback, but there are still the questions of time. Text is easier than a call, sure, but Tyler's started work on a mini-series, so he's either filming or in makeup or sleeping, and it's the same for Dylan, he thinks. They'll trade texts every couple days, but in some ways it just makes Tyler wish for more. They play Words With Friends for a while, but fall out of the habit. In September Tyler realizes he hasn't talked to Dylan in at least two weeks, doesn't even know when he’s coming back.

He should ask, he thinks.

He doesn't.

–

He's running a little late to the shindig, but the security guys at the door usher him in. They're holding it in a restaurant he hasn't been to before, a little swankier than where he'd normally go. They've rented out the whole thing, set up a stage at one end of the dining room so that people can get up and talk while everyone else eats. The banner reads “Ten Years of Beacon Hills! Congratulations, Teen Wolf!” red letters in a blood-drippy font, with the familiar yellow Teen Wolf logo at the bottom.

The waiter guides him discreetly to his seat, Tyler smiling stiffly as he hugs Adelaide and Jill before sitting down. It’s good to see them both, but it always takes him a while to warm up at things like this, to get acclimated to the big group of people in an enclosed space. One of the producers is on the stage as Tyler gets settled, talking about the first pitch of Teen Wolf and the building of the first season. Tyler tunes it out in favor of focusing his attention on his wineglass and his tablemates' whispered snark. 

The food is good, Californian Italian with fresh locally-sourced vegetables, and the wine is smooth. The speeches are one part nostalgic to two parts soporific, and he starts drinking water again when he realizes that he really is in danger of nodding off while some bigwig nods and smiles all over their _ huge success  _ and  _ lasting mark on the MTV world. _ It's dark enough in the room that he can't see everyone at the far tables, but from what he can see, they seem to have invited all the cast and crew that ever were, which is nice. He spies Sinqua and his wife in the middle of the room, and reminds himself to try to find Gage and ask about her latest show. It's some thing with beautiful but deadly mermaids, of which she's the leader, naturally. He'd caught an episode of it last year, and had enjoyed it a lot.

After the speeches are over, Posey's band takes the stage, and Tyler can't tell if it's all the same guys or not, but he's honestly impressed that it still exists at all, so that's a nice surprise. They're not really any better or worse than they were when he first heard them, and it seems like most of the crowd has moved past “tipsy” and fairly solidly into “drunk,” so there are no complaints. There's a crowd of people dancing up by the stage; he can see Colton and his boyfriend (Greg, if he remembers correctly), Jill's blond coif, and he thinks that's Crystal down at the end. Linden and Susan are over to one side chatting with Melissa and two of the make-up staff, and Tyler's heading over to say hey when Adelaide grabs him by the wrist and drags him into the crowd of dancers.

“Hoechlbear! I've missed you!” 

He smiles down at her. Her face is more mature, but just as lovely as ever. He's heard Reign's on its sixth and last season, Mary's death drawing nigh. 

“I've missed you too, little sis.” 

She laughs and rolls her eyes, settling her hands on his hips and forcing him to move with the beat. “How  _ are  _ you? I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!”

He shrugs, lets her take his hands and move his arms around with the music. “Yeah, it’s been a little while.” He smiles and spins her around. “You’ve seen me on facebook. I was at that thing at Ian’s a couple months ago; you were there too, with...he’s your fiance now, right?”

“Yes.” She ducks her head and smiles, then whacks him on the chest with the back of her hand. “Facebook doesn’t count, though, and you know it.”

“I know, I just...” He shrugs again, feeling a little at a loss. It’s not like he's been intentionally reclusive or anything, just...people get busy. It's how life is, how Hollywood is. He happily keeps in touch with anyone who wants to, but he doesn't like to force his company on people, especially if they're occupied with other commitments; fiances, children, Oscar nominations. “I don't know. I guess I just took some time off.” He grins, picks her up with his hands on her waist and spins around to make her laugh. “Wanna get coffee?”

She thumps him again, because she is the queen. “Yes, moron. I'll call you. Now, dance.” She spins in his arms and does a shimmy before grabbing him by the shoulders and turning him around and shoving him straight into the person next to him, forcing him to grab onto their sides to keep everyone upright.

“Hey! Tyler! Man!”

Dylan's face is flushed, the color blooming bright in his cheeks, and Tyler is suddenly filled with the memory of shooting late, cold, nights in Atlanta, how he and Dylan and Posey would huddle together for warmth in their t-shirts and jeans, Dylan's cheeks and mouth rosy and shining. 

Dylan of right now is flushed with heat and wine instead of cold, but he latches onto Tyler in the same way, both hands settling onto Tyler's shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the hollows of Tyler's collar bones. Dylan's still moving to the music, his hips swaying hypnotically as he claps Tyler on the arm. 

“Hey! I came back!”

Tyler laughs, lets his hands stay on Dylan's ribs where he'd grabbed for balance, lets Dylan's body move his own back and forth. 

“So I noticed! Good time in New York?”

“Yeah! Man, it was so awesome! I mean, I remember it from when I was a kid, but yeah, as a grown up, it was so fun!” Dylan has always been an exuberant drunk, Tyler knows, but he'd kind of forgotten what it's like to have that all up in his space. Dylan's hands are moving everywhere, gesturing, patting Tyler, waving to the music. “I'm glad to be home though.”

“Yeah?” Tyler can't help the smile on his face, never could help smiling at Dylan. He's just so...amazing. Funny. Everything. Why is it that he hasn't seen Dylan regularly in years, but two of the three times he has recently he's been a little buzzed? “When did you get back?” 

“Just a couple of days ago.” Dylan's mouth is moving, but the music is too loud, so Tyler leans in closer, putting his ear near Dylan's mouth.

“What?”

“JUST A COUPLE OF” the sound of the band stops and Dylan finishes up lamely into the quiet “...days ago.”

“Thank you everyone, what a great evening!” Jeff's at the mic, Posey and his buddies putting away their equipment. “Congratulations to everyone, and make sure to drive safe. They can call you a cab at the front if you need one. Let's do it again in another ten years!”

Jeff sets the mic back to a round of applause and cheers, and then there comes the rustle and din of people collecting purses, finding spouses and friends, rattling car keys or pulling out cell phones. 

Dylan hiccups, then covers his mouth with his hand, eyes wide as he looks at Tyler.

“Maybe I'll get a cab.”

Tyler laughs, gets his hand under Dylan's elbow, starts walking him off to the tables. 

“You have anything you need to grab?”

“Nah. Everything's in my pockets.”

Tyler steers them past his table to grab his jacket and kiss Adelaide and Jill, ignoring the sharp look they give him and the ruddy-cheeked Dylan. 

“I could give you a ride. If you want. Don't have to call a cab.”

“Yeah? Are you sure?” God, how did he forget how funny drunk Dylan is? He looks like Tyler's just wrapped up Christmas in a box and given it to him, all because he won't have to deal with public transit options. “Are  _ you _ good to drive?”

Tyler pauses for a moment, checks in with his body. His second glass of wine was well over an hour ago, and he's mostly high on adrenaline and social contact at this point.“Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Pretty sure I even remember where you live.” Pretty sure it's saved in his GPS. “It's no big deal.”

Dylan flings an arm around his shoulders and heads them for the doors, dropping his head to Tyler's shoulder and sighing contentedly. 

“Fuck. You're the  _ best _ .”

–

Dylan falls asleep about ten minutes into the drive, and Tyler feels even better about his decision not to leave him at the mercy of some cabbie who'd drive around with the meter running for a while before waking him up. 

He's yawning as he pulls onto Dylan's street thirty minutes later, but there's a nice open space right in front of Dylan's house, so he parks the car and turns it off before putting a hand on Dylan's knee and squeezing.

“Hey. D. Wake up.”

“ _ Hmmeehhr _ ?”

“Dylan.” He prods Dylan in the thigh where he knows he's ticklish, and gets a moan and a hand slap for it, but no actual movement toward getting out of the car. He sighs and rolls his eyes, releases his seat-belt, and climbs out.

He remembers what Dylan's like when he's sleepy—completely incoherent, and nearly comatose. They used to tease him like crazy when they'd catch him just waking up or just going to bed, because even though he might be technically awake, it was very much “awake” in the letter of the law and not the spirit of it. 

He opens Dylan's door and pops the seat-belt release, getting a hand under Dylan's arm and pulling him forward and out, letting his legs take the weight as he struggles to come to consciousness.

“Ty?”

“Yep. We're at your house, buddy. Let's get you into bed.” He closes and locks the car door. “Can you get your keys out?”

It's lucky that Dylan's gate has a remote, because finding his house keys occupies Dylan all the way up to the front door, and Tyler's not sure that he'd be capable of punching in numbers on a pad.  But he gets them out eventually, his eyes all squinty and barely awake, and hands them to Tyler. Tyler rolls his eyes, but flips the lock and lets them in. 

He kicks his shoes off at the door, and makes Dylan do the same, even though he's drooping forward as Tyler tries to balance him. 

“C'mon, where do you sleep?”

Dylan flaps a hand in a generally left-ward direction and shuffles forward, clumsily unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. He's moving on his own enough that Tyler thinks he can leave him and grab a glass water, but he snags Dylan's arm as they shuffle past the bathroom and pushes him in the direction of the sink. 

“D. Bathroom first. You'll thank me in the morning.”

Dylan nods vaguely, and Tyler heads off down the dark hallway to the kitchen to rummage through the cupboards until he finds a plastic tumbler. He fills it with water, hearing the sound of the bathroom door opening echo down from the other end of the house. He turns off the tap and heads back.

It takes him a second to figure out which room Dylan's in; it's not the room he was packing in before, which is a smaller bedroom off to the left, but instead he finds him sprawled facedown on a queen-sized bed in the next room down. It looks like there are three bedrooms, total; the two Tyler's seen are in relative degrees of unpacking chaos. The front rooms are reasonably pulled together, though they don't look lived in, but Tyler's starting to think that's Dylan's sister's doing, given the state of the more private areas.

“C’mon, up.” He prods Dylan in the ribs with a finger, eliciting a moan. “Up. Take off your belt and drink this water. Then you can pass out again.”

The sound Dylan makes in protest is truly pitiable, but Tyler developed an immunity to these particular noises of Dylan’s around the third time that Posey left him for dead on the rug in front of the couch in their old apartment after a night of drinking. He palms Dylan's shoulder and pulls him upright, laughing out loud at the rumpled glare he gets in response. 

“Here. Drink this.” He sets the glass in Dylan's hands, and yanks Dylan's already unbuckled belt from its loops. He's not going to bother trying to get him out of his pants, but he unbuttons the cuffs of Dylan's shirt and slides it off his shoulders, Dylan pulling his hands away from the glass one at a time so Tyler can ease it off over his wrists and fingers. 

“You should stay.”

“Hmm?” Tyler takes the glass from Dylan and sets it on the bedside table next to a leaning pile of paperbacks. 

“You're tired. It's late. We're nowhere near your house.” Dylan's eyes in the light of the streetlamps still aren't what Tyler would call fully alert, but the water's revived him enough that he's not slurring his words. 

Tyler thinks about it. He is tired, it's true. And it is at least forty minutes on the freeway to his place at...he checks his watch, past one in the morning. 

“Dude. Just stay. We can catch up tomorrow.” Dylan stands up enough to flip the sheet and blanket back and shove his legs underneath. He grabs a pillow and rolls over onto his stomach. 

“You don't mind?” Tyler wants to wince even as he says it. He and Dylan used to be so close, but it's been so long now, he just doesn't feel comfortable presuming, but hates that he feels compelled to ask.

He's not the only one apparently. Dylan levers up from his pillow enough to squint at him grumpily. 

“Look, Hoech, I know we haven't been in touch, but we're still friends, ok? Just, take off your shirt and your watch and shit, and lay down. Is sleeping time.” He flops back down onto the pillow with a satisfied groan.

Tyler blinks. “I...the couch?”

Dylan doesn't even bother raising up this time, just mumbles into the pillow. 

“Too many windows. Gets light real early. Here. You. In.”

And, well. He doesn't want to argue anymore, so he pulls off his pants and watch and overshirt, and slides under the covers. They used to do this sometimes, a long time ago. For all that they're both pretty private people, they'd figured out early on that they both need touch and company, and Tyler at least didn't always know how to get it from people around them. Dylan'd had Posey and all of their effusive affection, but sometimes when they'd been shooting for a long time, or Tyler'd been homesick, or Dylan was having anxiety issues, one of them would just come and crawl in next to the other and go to sleep. It was enough, just having the heat and quiet sounds of another person to focus on, to be that comforting white noise.

He thinks he'll lie there awake for hours, but he can hear Dylan's breaths lengthening out into gentle whuffs, feel the mattress sag as his body goes limp with sleep, and then he's sliding under, sinking into the dark.

–

He wakes up abruptly, not sure where he is. He can see the light filtering through the slats of the blinds, but doesn't recognize his surroundings until he puts a hand out and finds Dylan's still-sleeping form, and it all comes back to him. 

He's awake now, no going back, so he pulls himself out of bed and steps into his pants, leaving his shirt where it is and enjoying the cool morning air on his skin. He pulls the covers back up so that he doesn't disturb Dylan, and pads out into the front of the house.

It's a little past seven, the light still rising, but with the windows all along the east wall, it's still lovely and bright. He thinks for a moment about leaving, slipping out while Dylan gets his beauty rest, but he goes to look for the coffee maker instead. There's no reason for him to slink out like he's done something wrong. Dylan asked him to stay, implied that they'd hang out, catch up, shoot the shit, whatever you want to call it. Tyler would like that, he really would, and if Dylan seems taken aback to find him still hanging around when he gets up, he'll just make a graceful exit then. 

He finds the coffee pot, and then the coffee. Scoops enough for a full pot into the filter, plugs it in and sets it to gurgling. He checks the cabinet where he found the glasses last night and manages to track down two mugs, but no sugar. There's no real rhyme or reason to how things are organized; more like someone had just unpacked the boxes straight into whatever cupboard happened to be open in front of them, no thought about whether the dishes should be closer to the sink, or whether spices should be near the stove. 

The more he sees of Dylan's house, the more he's starting to get the feeling that Dylan's not living anywhere. It's a little sad, really; it's not his nature, or didn't used to be anyway. Dylan’s always been a homebody, someone who liked to make their space their own, and then live in it. He seems tired and nomadic now, and even though Tyler can still see the Dylan he knew in there, he also sees a driven, exhausted, and kind of lonely adult. 

The coffee maker burbles its completion at him, so he pours a mug for himself and sets the rest back on the burner to keep warm. Dylan's sleep schedule must be off from the time shift still, so who knows when he'll be up. Tyler may end up drinking the second cup himself, and making a second pot.

–

It was Colton who'd first made Tyler consider that Dylan might actually be kind of interested in him, but he'd brushed it off at the time. Dylan'd been slumped against his side on a lounge chair, somewhat wasted and laughing, and Colton'd looked at them and rolled his eyes heavily. Tyler'd been confused at the moment, but Colton cornered him later in the kitchen when he was picking up the bottles on the counter to take out to the recycling bin.

“Man, does Dylan even know he's got the hots for you?”

“What?” Tyler'd shot him an incredulous look. “He does not.”

“Um, yes. Yes, he does. His tongue  was practically hanging out of his mouth back there.”

Tyler pulled a face. “Dude. We're buddies. He likes girls.”

Colton shrugged and took a long pull from the bottle in his hand. “Sure. I bet he does. But he also likes you. What're you gonna do about it?”

“What? Nothing, man.” Tyler put the last bottle in the bin and hefted it up. “Even if I believed you, which, for the record, I don't, I wouldn't do anything. We're friends.”

“Uh huh. Keep telling yourself that.”

Tyler'd  made a face at him and headed out the door with the bottles, writing the conversation off as nonsense. But after that...he couldn't quite shake it.

Sure, Dylan and Posey were tactile with each other, hanging on each other, giving each other noogies, slapping each other on the arms, the back, the butt. They were like overgrown puppies, always play-fighting and yanking on each other's ears. But...that was it. There was no cuddling, no extended hugs, no shared space that wasn't in constant action and reaction. 

With Tyler, on the other hand, Dylan seemed to be magnetically drawn to his side. If he sat down to watch a movie on the couch, Dylan'd show up with popcorn and flop down beside him, leg pressed against leg, elbows jostling. If they were out, Dylan was on him like a limpet, never losing him in the crowd, dancing where he danced, going to the bar for a fresh drink with him, you name it. Dylan melted into Tyler's touch whenever Tyler would buzz his head, going limp and warm and relaxed all over him. And that thing, where it helped them both to sleep in the same bed sometimes? Yeah. There was that, too.

Still, he wrote it off. Maybe,  _ maybe _ , Dylan had a puppy crush, but first of all, sometimes that just happens with proximity. You spend enough time having intense experiences with the same group of people, you're gonna get the hots for someone, it's just how things go. Besides, even if Dylan was interested in him, what was Tyler going to do about it? Call him out on it? That'd be cruel and unnecessary. So, it was obviously ridiculous and best ignored either way.

_ Best _ ignored, maybe, but as it turned out, not  _ easily _ ignored. Because Dylan was omni-present. And Tyler...Tyler found that on those rare occasions when Dylan was not by his side...he missed him. 

He's not sure quite when he figured out that his preoccupation with whether or not Dylan had a crush on  _ him  _ had become a crush that he had on Dylan. It just dawned on him at some point, that this thing where he couldn't wait to see him, texted him all the time to just tell him little things, the way he watched Dylan's scenes in awe...that these things might be a little much for someone who was just a friend. 

He  _ is _ pretty sure, however, that the time of him figuring out that he might actually like Dylan in the way that it had been implied that Dylan liked him, well...that's when Dylan fell  _ out _ of like with him.

He's a little lost on when and why it happened, to be honest, but at some point he became aware that those long, awestruck gazes were a thing of the past. Maybe it was because the shoots kept them relentlessly apart, maybe it was because they weren't even allowed to do interviews together anymore. He doesn't know. But something set some distance between them, and left Tyler on the wrong end of the stick.

–

He finishes his coffee and rinses the cup, setting it in the dishdrainer in case he wants it again later. He's starting to get hungry, so he opens the fridge to see if there's anything edible. To his surprise, there actually is: a carton of eggs, some milk, a few miscellaneous vegetables in the crisper and a carton of orange juice, as well some bread, cheese, and assorted condiments. He shuts the door and wanders over to look out the window at the small yard. 

There's a birdfeeder hanging from the edge of the roof, two sparrows fighting and eating in turn. The yard itself is mostly native plants and bark mulch. It looks like it's been relatively recently redone; the ground cover hasn't spread very far, and the bark all still looks new. He wonders who's taking care of the little details of Dylan's life these days; the Dylan he knew wouldn't have bothered with having a landscaper, but he also hasn't seen any evidence of a PA. Maybe his sister? Or maybe it was part of the sale or rental of the house?

Or maybe, he thinks, as he lets himself quietly out the screen door, maybe Dylan's just grown up. 

He spies a small rosemary bush in the corner and wanders over, bare feet prickling on the rough bark. He breaks off a small branch and holds it to his nose, inhaling the sharp scent. His place only has a strip of grass in front, then sand and stones in the back. Maybe he should get some of those big planter barrels, grow some rosemary. Maybe some basil.

He heads back inside. 

–

His fingers twitch to rearrange the cupboards so that they make more sense, but he resists. It's not his space, and not his business. Dylan can be a little particular about his stuff, too, just like Tyler can, and though he's pretty sure that this isn't any order that Dylan created (any “order” anyone created, to be honest), he doesn't want to stick his fingers where they don't belong.

He spends a few minutes on his phone, texting with Tanner, and then with JR, making plans to grab a beer later in the week, but eventually his stomach growls, so he heads back to the kitchen. 

Dylan's lone chopping knife is woefully dull, and he can't find a sharpener anywhere, but fortunately an omelet doesn't really require any of the vegetables to be in attractive shapes, so he chops away. The tomato ends up more smushed into pieces than actually chopped, but oh well. 

He looks up from turning the omelet to see Dylan leaning against the cabinets, his hair sticking in all directions and pillow lines on his face. His stomach flips for a second; he's making all kinds of assumptions about what their friendship is, making breakfast in Dylan's house like this, and without really much basis in having seen each other regularly in years. It's like he's slid back to where they were without thinking of it, and he's worried that's overstepping until he sees the smile spreading across Dylan's face.

“How did I forget that you make breakfast every morning? God,  _ why _ did you ever stop coming over? ”

Tyler laughs. “Um. I don't know.” He pours the still warm coffee into the second mug and hands it over. “Omelettes ok?”

“Yes. God yes. You may make me food any time you like, for the record.” Dylan cradles the cup in his long fingers, his eyes closing in pleasure as he inhales the steam. Tyler chokes a little watching him, manages to haul his attention back to the omelet just in time to rescue it from burning. He lifts it onto a plate, and pushes it to the end of the counter near Dylan's elbow as he pours the eggs into the pan for the second one.

“Go ahead. If you wait for me, it'll get cold.”

Dylan smiles, and reaches around the counter for a bar stool, pulling it over so he can sit where he's been standing, leaning an elbow onto the granite worktop. 

“Fork?”

Tyler digs through the drawers until he finds the silverware, pulls out two and hands one to Dylan. He changes the coffee filter and adds new grounds, pours the water into the maker, and adds his chopped vegetables to the center of the omelet. Dylan cuts a bite and pops it into his mouth, closes his eyes, and moans. Tyler burns his finger on the edge of the skillet, sucks on it while he folds the edges of the eggs over, and then runs it under some cold water.

“You ok?”

Dylan's face is all wide-eyed concern, and Tyler finds himself grateful for the expanse of counter and stovetop between them, because his dress pants leave less to the imagination than he might like.

“Yeah, fine. Just caught my finger, you know.”

“Aw.” Dylan frowns, and Tyler laughs. 

“It's fine. Don't worry about it. Eat your food.” He shakes the spatula at Dylan, who sticks his tongue out, bits of egg visible. “Ugh, you kiss your girlfriend with that mouth?”

Dylan shakes his head, laughs, mumbles through a mouthful. “ _ Christ _ , this is good. No girlfriend.”

Tyler turns off the skillet, scoops his omelet onto a plate and pours them both a second cup of coffee. He steps around the counter to find the second bar stool, and settles onto it, cutting a bite of food.

Dylan smiles at him, eyes as warm and glowing in the morning light as they ever were. He's got tiny lines around the corners now, and his face is longer, not the round cuteness of when they met. He's still just about the best thing Tyler's ever seen, he realizes.

“Hey,” he says, leaning over to clap Tyler on the shoulder. 

Tyler can't help but smile back.

“Hey.”

–

It's ridiculously easy, after that. They spend all day together, Tyler finally going home around midnight.  They hang out again that week, and then three days the next. They're both between projects, so finding the time is simple. It's like being on vacation, almost—they get drinks, they drive down the coast and have burritos and too much tequila. They go surfing, they play video games, they catch up.

He's not an idiot; he's aware that he's still more than a little into Dylan. He's not sure whether or not Dylan was ever aware of the turn his feelings took back then, but he decides it doesn't matter. They're friends, and that's plenty good enough. He still has friends, of course—old friends and new friends, from work and not. Still, a lot of the friends he has tend to be more social companions; someone to have a beer with, grab a coffee and talk about sports, travel, work, the weather. But Dylan is different: they've always understood each other on a fundamental level, their personalities complementing each other in a way that makes it easy to be together, to talk and then not talk, to do everything from work 18 hours straight to bum out endlessly on the beach. 

It is what it is, and he's grateful.

Dylan books a job that'll start filming in January, and Tyler takes a few minutes to feel maudlin over the eventual end of their time together, but then he manages to book a show filming in Thailand starting in the last week of November, and suddenly he's got a ticket on a flight for two weeks out. It's another supernatural show, this one about a lost city in the jungle, but it sounds pretty fun, and it's got a full 24 episodes ordered. 

“So, I'll be there for Christmas, which is kind of a bummer, but Mom's saying they might all just come visit for New Years, so that would be nice.”

“That's so great, buddy!” Dylan beams at him from the other end of the couch. They'd been watching Monty Python reruns on Dylan's big-screen, eating pizza. Dylan's is double meat and extra peppers, Tyler's gluten-free with veggies and no cheese. He makes a face at his plate. His whole body aches from working out; he's in ok shape, really, but if he's going to be wearing loincloths in the jungle, he's got some work to do, and he's not twenty-four anymore. He can feel it. 

“Yeah, I'm pretty excited. I haven't had a steady gig since...”

“You were in that one cop show for a while, what was it...” Dylan gestures with his crust before shoving it in his mouth. “PI Northlands?”

Tyler chews, nods. “Yeah. Yeah, for a season. That was a while ago.”

“Yeah, you were good though.” Tyler looks at him in surprise. “What?” Dylan raises an eyebrow. “You were.”

“Um. Thanks.” Tyler shoves another bite of pizza into his mouth, chews, swallows. “I just...didn't realize you watched it.”

Dylan shrugs. “I didn't watch all of it, but I caught an episode when I was in a hotel at one point, and saw you in it, so then I watched the rest of the season. I liked it.”

Tyler can feel his cheeks heating, so he ducks his head to his plate. “Thanks, man.”

“Dude, of course. What happened to it, anyway? It kind of ended on a cliffhanger.”

Tyler makes a face. “It just got cut. You know.” He gestures vaguely. “Shit happens. Budgets go away.”

“Yeah.” Dylan laughs. “I'm aware. Too bad, though. It was fun.” He gets up, grabs another piece. He settles back down on the couch, long legs bent beneath him, denim covered knees poking out to either side. “Tell me about this one. You get to spend months in in the tropics, sounds like a rough job.” 

“Hah, yeah. I guess...” Tyler thinks for minute. “So, the premise is basically that this guy goes on a work trip, and decides to visit some ruins while he's there. And while he's exploring the ruins with his buddy and girl from their office, they fall into a...” he waves his hand “a trap of some kind, I'm not sure they know what kind yet, and they end up back in time.”

Dylan sighs happily. “Man, this is gonna be good. You're the lead, right?” Tyler nods. “Let me guess—you all go native, and there's at least one love triangle. What skills do you have? Do you win the heart of the beautiful long-dead native girl?”

Tyler laughs. Dylan's face is the same sort of excitedly focused it used to get when they'd read their new scripts, trying to figure out where the story was going to go, what was going to happen next. 

“Yeah, basically. Our clothes all disintegrate in the tropical heat and humidity, naturally.”

“Naturally.” Dylan's eyes are twinkling.

“The girl with us was an EMT in a past job.”

“Convenient.”

“Yep. And my buddy grew up in the country, and knows how to hunt.”

“Nice.” Dylan's biting his lip not to laugh now, and Tyler can't help but grin at him.

“It's a beautiful native  _ boy _ , though, actually. He seduces me with his impressive spearwork.”

Dylan eyes go big for a second, then he cracks up and falls off the couch.

“Spearwork,  _ god _ .” He giggles from his place on the floor. “That's great, man. An actual progressive show, that's awesome.”

Tyler nods. “Yeah, I mean, it's not the first, but it's still not a common thing. I think it's good.”

Dylan leans up on his elbows. “Have you met your gentleman love yet?”

“No.” Tyler rolls his eyes. “We'll all meet when we're there.” He frowns. “I've got to find someone to house-sit while I'm gone. And pack.”

“Hey.” Dylan's face is serious, and Tyler raises a questioning eyebrow. “I'm gonna miss you, man.” He smiles, but it's serious and gentle, and Tyler's stomach crawls up his esophagus, making him rub the back of his neck and look at his plate for a moment. 

“You should come visit.”

“Yeah?” Dylan's face is suddenly terribly excited, and Tyler smiles to see it. “Come hang out in your tropical paradise?”

“Hell yeah. Absolutely. I'm gonna be there for a few months, but you should come before you head to wherever you're going in January. We'll hang out.”

“Yeah.” Dylan smiles. “Maybe I'll just do that.”

–

They've been shooting for a week, and Tyler is exhausted. Exhausted, with a capital E. He'd gotten himself back in shape in time, but maintaining it in the heat and humidity of the jungle is wearing him out. The cast and crew are great; turns out he's worked with two of the cast before, which is nice, and the show is clever, without taking itself at all seriously. It's refreshing—the last couple of projects he's worked on have been on the more earnest end of the spectrum, and he hadn't realized quite how much he'd missed the more light-hearted nature of cheesy fantasy shows.

It's the 24 th , their last morning of shooting before breaking for the holidays. Most everyone has already left for the states until the first week of January, but since Tyler's family's coming here, they'd scheduled him and Jerome, the guy playing his native Romeo, for a scene with just the two of them this morning. Jerome's a local, kinda, born and raised in Singapore, so he's sticking around too. 

It's a good scene; the writers are letting the arc between the two characters build slowly, and he and Jerome had hit it off instantly, so it's been fun. The scene they're shooting this morning is the two of them fighting—Jerome's character, Kamon, is teaching Tyler's how to spear fish, and it involves a lot of hands-on guidance. Tyler keeps having flashbacks to “teaching” his high school girlfriend how to play mini-golf, and from the look of it, Jerome's having similar memories, so they keep cracking each other up.

Jerome'd told him up front when they met that he was gay, but taken, and Tyler'd nodded and accepted the declaration for what it was. He hadn't volunteered his own on-again, off-again sexual proclivities, but Jerome is both devastatingly attractive, and extremely perceptive, so Tyler's pretty sure the effectiveness of their scenes together is not lost on him.

“Ok, one more time, guys.” The director is sounding a little tired, so Tyler resolves to play it seriously this time and get it done. He feels a little guilty; no doubt the remaining crew members also have plans for the holiday, and would like to get out of here. He raises his eyebrows at Jerome, and Jerome nods. They've got this.

They step into position, Jerome's big arms wrapping around Tyler's shoulders from behind, and walk through the dialogue. Jerome's an inch or two shorter than Tyler, but broader and muscled like Tarzan, making Tyler look pale and surprisingly delicate in comparison. His character has adopted the native “dress,” or lack thereof, so he can only imagine what the play of their arms together as they throw the spear into the water will look like on screen.

They spear a “fish,” which will be edited in later, and share a lingering gaze, Jerome's hands resting on Tyler's elbows, their faces close, Tyler's chin tipping up just so.

“Cut! That's a wrap.”

They step away from each other, and high five, Jerome looping an arm around him as they start to head back to the trailers, and it's just then that Tyler catches sight of him, broad grin and narrowing eyes, slow clapping as he walks forward.

“Nicely done, gentlemen!  _ Nicely _ done!”

Tyler can't help the grin that splits his face. 

“D! I didn't know you were coming! It's good to see you!”

Jerome looks between them, drops his arm, and steps away smiling. 

“Tyler, I gotta go pick up the husband. I'll leave you and...”

“Dylan. Nice to meet you, man.” Dylan holds out his hand and Jerome shakes it before stepping back and punching Tyler on the shoulder. 

“Have a good break. Call me up if you wanna check out the sights at all, otherwise I'll catch you on the third.”

“Yeah, take care! Give my best to Somchai!”

Jerome nods and grins again, then saunters off to his trailer, leaving Tyler face to face with Dylan.

“Hey. C'mere, buddy.” He holds out his arms, and Dylan laughs before stepping forward and in, his arms going around Tyler's ribs and squeezing. He smells good, like home and himself, like stale airplane and fresh deodorant. “It's good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too!” Dylan smiles, then yawns jaw-crackingly wide. “Ugh, sorry. Fucking time zones, man.”

Tyler laughs. “Come on, let's head back to my trailer. We can grab some food, you can grab a nap if you want.”

“Yeah.” Dylan yawns again, and laughs. “That sounds good.”

–

Tyler goes off to get changed, and comes back to find Dylan passed out on his dingy little couch. He can't help but smile—it's too much like the old days, when he'd find Dylan and Posey asleep where they fell, one draped over the couch, one slumped onto the floor, sometimes on the balcony, or in someone's car, or, one memorable time, in the shower. 

He gets himself a bottle of water and puts the TV on low. It's terrible reception out here, three channels in Thai and one in Cantonese, but he's developing a taste for the incredibly over-acted Chinese soaps. He pops the lid of his water and settles in on the floor, back against the couch, legs stretched out in front of him.

–

It's a while later when Dylan wakes him up by rolling over and unconsciously whacking him in the back of the head. The TV's still on, showing a Chinese news anchor talking about what must be the stock market, based on the graphs displayed next to her head, but the sun's nearly down, the room dim and cooler. He stretches, cracking his vertebrae. He's stiff and sore, but that's the normal state of things these days. At least they hadn't been doing anything particularly involved today; he's only the usual level of tired and achy. 

He pulls himself off the floor and goes to empty his bladder and recycle his water bottle down the hall of the little trailer. When he gets back, he pauses, staring at Dylan, who has sprawled completely across the couch, one leg across the arm, one trailing to the floor, both arms flung over his head.

Tyler has to take a breath.

Dylan’s beautiful like this, unguarded and content in sleep. Tyler'd known they were getting close again, but he hadn't expected this, hadn't expected Dylan to show up unannounced on Christmas Eve and elbow his way into Tyler's space with his too-warm eyes and his too-big smile. He doesn't know what he's done to deserve this, but he's sure as hell not going to question it too closely.

He bends down, lays a hand on the side of Dylan's face. 

“Hey.” He keeps his voice low, not wanting to startle him. “Hey, Dylan.”

Dylan turns his sleepy face into the palm of Tyler's hand, and it's all Tyler can do not to caress his cheek. 

“D. Wake up, buddy.”

“Hmmm?” Dylan blinks blearily up at him, one hand coming up to anchor itself on Tyler's wrist, warm and damp with sleep. “Hoech?”

“Yeah. C'mon, sit up. I'll get you some water.”

Dylan goes upright relatively easily, still blinking, and Tyler grabs him a fresh bottle of water from the mini-fridge, twisting the cap loose and handing it over. Dylan takes a long drink, wipes his mouth on his arm.

“Hey. So. Yeah.” Dylan smiles. “I'm here.”

“Yeah.” Tyler can't help but grin back at him. “You sure are. Welcome to Thailand.”

“God.” Dylan scrubs a hand through his hair, scritching at the back of his scalp. “Fucking jetlag. What the hell time is it, anyway?”

“Food time.”

Dylan laughs, takes another long drink, a drop of water running down from the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, I think you're right.” He nods seriously at Tyler. “Also maybe getting drunk time.”

Tyler grins back. “Aren't you lucky I'm here? I know just the place.” 

He holds out a hand, and Dylan grips it, pulling against Tyler's body weight to haul himself off the couch. He brushes off his shirt, finishes his water, and sets the empty bottle on the tiny end-table.

“Lead on, oh alpha my alpha!” He flings open the screen door with a flourish and jumps down to the ground, turning to grin back at Tyler and gesture furiously. “C'mon! Let's go!”

Tyler goes.

-

The main filming site and on-site housing isn't far outside of the nearest medium-sized town, so they end up walking up the road into the outskirts, and then into the town proper. They could have gotten a cab, but it's a beautiful evening, even if it's still balmy as fuck, and the walk will help loosen his stiff muscles. They pass a couple of bars, but they're pretty seedy out on the edge of things, so they keep going until they reach Kiet's. Tyler can't say he's been here enough to be a regular, but it's where the crew goes, and he's come a couple of times, so he trusts it. 

They step into the dimly lit interior and make their way over to the bar, grabbing a rickety wooden stool each. It's a Tuesday, and the place is pretty empty. It's early, too, but still. Dylan is looking around with wide eyes, taking in the ads on the walls, the soccer game playing on the TV in the corner. The ceiling is done up with thatch to give the place that island/tropical air, in spite of the whole building being made of cinder blocks. Tyler notices a tight-dressed woman in the corner giving Dylan a long once-over, and catches her eye before slowly shaking his head. Dylan's too busy reaching up to gently tap a preserved puffer fish to notice. 

“Ah, gentlemen! What can I get for you this fine evening?”

Kiet is a small man, incongruously dapper in his pressed linen shirt and smart cap when compared with the faux-paradise décor of his bar. His English is flawless, tinged with a British accent, and his whiskey, though comparatively expensive, is hands-down the best around.

Tyler holds up two fingers, and nods when Kiet goes for the big dark bottle behind the counter. “Two, please. To start. We'll probably need several.” 

Kiet smiles, and Dylan laughs, leaning into Tyler's space in the way that reminds him exactly why he's possessed with the need to get really impressively drunk tonight. 

–

Kiet doesn't get them wasted, which, Tyler supposes, he's grateful for. He does have family coming tomorrow, after all; he doesn't really want to have to be the festive host with the hangover from hell. But Kiet does get them solidly drunk, really  _ very _ sloshed, and by the time they stagger out of the bar, the world is warm and friendly, and the stars in the sky are beautiful, and at some point in the evening Dylan's hand ended up on his leg, probably just for balance after the fourth or fifth shot, but then it stayed there while Dylan laughed, and while Tyler smiled, and. 

And he liked it.

He still likes it, trailing along a step behind as Dylan stumble-bounces along the road back toward the camp, his pale hands waving in the humid night air. The moon is full and up, thank goodness, because there aren't exactly streetlights out here, but they can see the road just fine. 

Dylan is talking, his warm voice wandering across topics and thoughts, and he's getting too far ahead, so Tyler steps up and hooks a finger in his belt, pulling him back so they can walk together. Dylan looks back at him in surprise, then wraps an arm around his shoulders and smiles. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, and with his hair short again he looks more like the starry-eyed boy that Tyler first met ten years ago than the successful adult he's become. 

He's still got his fingers in Dylan's belt when they stumble into his trailer, and he's looking around in muzzy dismay, because how did he not realize that there's nowhere for Dylan to sleep here, where is he going to put him, when he realizes that Dylan's mouth is on his, pressing warm and boozy against his own.

There's nothing for it but to kiss back, to wrap a hand around that perfect curve of Dylan's skull and tip his head slightly, press a tongue into his mouth and catch his groan. Dylan gets his fingers under Tyler's shirt, and Tyler is at a loss for reasons as to why the hell this hasn't happened already, in the last ten years, in the last ten months, in the last ten fucking minutes already. Dylan yanks off Tyler's shirt, and laughs loudly, throwing his head back in glee as Tyler forgoes Dylan's t-shirt in favor of dropping to his knees and hauling Dylan's shorts to his ankles.

“Hoech,  _ Christ _ ...” Dylan is still laughing, bracing a hand against the wall as he steps out of his fallen clothing. “C'mon, buddy, up, I know you've got a bed hidden in this thing somewhere.” 

Tyler grumbles, but allows himself to be pulled to his feet and dragged down the tiny hallway. He satisfies himself with a firm and thorough grope of Dylan's ass that has Dylan fumbling into the wall and tightening his grip in Tyler's shirt. 

It's due to Dylan's determination that they make it to the bed, but Tyler catches him by the hips again and pulls him to sit on the edge of it, sliding a hand up Dylan's belly as Dylan falls backward onto the coverlet. He hauls Dylan's underwear off with no ceremony, rubbing his face on the warm skin of Dylan's inner thighs as Dylan laughs above him. 

“Ty, what the hell, I did  _ not _ know that you...” the rest of the sentence gets swallowed by a moan as Tyler gets his mouth around Dylan's dick, his eyes closing as he palms himself in time with his movement up and down the length in his mouth. It's not hurried, but it's not elegant either, and he really doesn't care. From the sound of it, neither does Dylan, and Tyler pulls happily with his tongue as Dylan gets a hand in the hair at the nape of Tyler's neck and begins to jerk his hips up. Tyler manages to get his dick out of his pants while paying some particular attention the head of Dylan's cock, which he's pleased to discover is just the right shape to wrap his lips around at the base, allowing him to either suckle it or swirl his tongue over it. Or he can alternate in turns as Dylan kicks a foot against the bedframe and groans, that works too. The night air feels amazing on the bare skin of his own dick, and he grumbles happily as he slides his mouth all the way back down Dylan's shaft and starts fisting himself at a steady pace.

They're both drunk enough that it takes a little bit of time, but they're also both drunk enough that it doesn't matter at all—it's easy and playful and feels disgustingly good all over, reminding Tyler exactly how long it's been since he did this with someone he wasn't trying to impress. Dylan makes all of Tyler's new favorite noises; grunts and groans and shouts. He wraps his fingers in Tyler's hair and yanks in surprise when Tyler does something new or unexpected. Tyler had honestly never thought quite this far or explicitly about them together, but if he had, he doesn't think he could have come up with the perfection of Dylan's taste, or the incredible hotness of feeling Dylan's legs shake around him as he comes down Tyler's throat. 

Dylan collapses for a moment, limbs completely limp as Tyler presses his forehead to Dylan's thigh, still pulling at his own cock with single minded determination, then sits up and curls forward, swaying slightly as he pulls Tyler to kneeling up. 

“Hey, hey. You're gonna hurt yourself. Let me help.”

Dylan's voice is hoarse, but gentle, and he drags his tongue across his palm before reaching down to slide his hand under Tyler's. It's electrifying, the sensation of someone else's hands on him. It’s been a long time since he felt this good, too long, so he gives himself over to the sensations of Dylan's fingers and only takes a minute before he's coming, his orgasm a slow rumble from his toes to his ears, engulfing him and making him gasp for air.

He's listing heavily to one side when he opens his eyes to the dark room, and Dylan is tugging insistently at him, pulling his heavy body up onto the double bed. He doesn't so much lay down as collapse, and Dylan's right with him, sprawled on his back and still breathing heavily.

The window above the bed is open, the faint sound of bugs hitting the screen rising in the spaces in between Dylan's lengthening breath. The light of the full moon is glowing on the cupboard across the tiny walkway.

Dylan rolls onto his stomach and loops an arm around Tyler's rib cage, already half asleep.

“Merry Christmas, buddy.” 

It's mostly slurred, but Tyler understands it anyway. He smiles.

“Merry Christmas, D.”

–

He expects...he doesn't know what he expects, to be honest. But whatever he fears—that things will go bad between them, that it will be awkward, that Dylan will leave—none of it happens. He wakes up to Dylan grumbling good-naturedly about being glued to himself with spooge as he clatters into the tiny bathroom, and then coming back twenty minutes later after a shower to collapse back onto the bed and mumble about  _ fucking jet-lag _ before he passes out, open mouth pressed against Tyler's bare shoulder. 

It's good.

His family shows up the next afternoon after checking into their hotel, and they spend the next few days visiting the local tourist sites, taking candid shots, and eating too much delicious food. Dylan fits in like he's never been gone, and Tyler finds himself wondering all over again why it was that they'd fallen out of touch in the first place. Careers, he supposes, which seems silly in retrospect, but what can you do? He pulls Dylan closer to him at night, smiling as Dylan curls up willingly against his side, and tries not to think too far beyond the moment. 

–

It's all over after a week, of course—his family goes back to the states, and Dylan with them. There's no teary goodbye, nothing more than Dylan's grin and a playful slap to the ass. Tyler grins back, and gets him in a headlock to give him a solid noogie, then pushes him and his suitcase out the door.

They text. They don’t mention it. 

–

“So, tell me about your boyfriend,” Jerome says as they lie by the river between takes. “You guys seem like you’ve known each other a long time.”

“Oh, Dylan’s not my boyfriend,” Tyler says easily, laughing in surprise. He doesn’t...it’s not like that. He’s not really sure what it  _ is  _ like, if he’s honest with himself, but it’s not like dating. Not like a relationship.  “But yeah, we go way back.”

Jerome raises an eyebrow. “He’s the one you text all the time, right?”

Tyler shrugs. “Yeah. We talk. He’s kind of a night owl, so the time difference isn’t as bad as you’d think.”

“He’s also the one who gave you those hickeys over the holiday break, right?”

“Yeah.” Tyler looks away, picks up a stick in front of him on the ground and shoves it into the dirt. “But we’re just...we were just fooling around; having some fun. It’s not like we’re together.”

Jerome looks him over appraisingly for a moment, flicking a leaf between his fingers. “Why not?” he asks finally. “You guys seemed like you really click.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’d work,” Tyler says without thinking. “We’re never in the same place very long. His career’s really been taking off, so he needs to be available to pursue that, not be tied down by other commitments.” He gestures absently, picturing Dylan as he’d seen him months ago in his tuxedo, being fawned over by industry bigwigs. “He’s still pretty young, just figuring out what he wants. You know.”

Jerome’s quiet for a moment, letting the low splashing of the river in front of the them fill the silence. The day’s warming up nicely, and the sun feels good on Tyler’s back.

“What if what he wants is you?” Jerome says finally, his voice neutral.

Tyler just laughs and shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, chucking the stick into the water and watching it float away. “No, it wouldn’t be.”

–

Filming wraps in early February, and then he's home alone for the rest of the month, since Dylan's still shooting his new movie in the Nevada desert. Tyler doesn't envy him in the slightest, but he can admit that the latest leaked photos on the internet of Dylan in filthy jeans and not much else are definitely intriguing.

He hangs out with Tanner and Ian and a few of his other friends, grabbing beers and winding down after the rush of being on-set all the time. His show is set to air at the beginning of April, far enough away to still be building publicity, but close enough that he's getting nervous about it. It's good, he thinks; fun, but with some real heart. He'd like it to do well, and not just for his sake.

He does some interviews as part of the ramp-up of publicity. Laughs aloud when one of the interviewers plays a clip of Derek, season one and surly. It's jarring, to see himself like that. He's forgotten what that face feels like superimposed on his own. Poor messed-up Derek Hale; such a delicate flower, but with so many thorns. 

They ask him the usual questions: did he like filming the show (he did), who's he dating now (he just laughs), is that really him in the loincloth or did they have a body double (it's him). They want to know if it was hard playing in a gay romance, and he shrugs, gestures at the life-size picture of Jerome behind them, and says it was no burden. He's never made any public statements about his sexuality, but he's been photographed with enough men and women over the years, he knows what the speculations are. He's not interested in confirming or denying, because whose business is it, anyway? He redirects to talk about what a consummate actor Jerome is, what a pleasure it is to work with folks he's worked with before, how much he hopes it gets picked up for another season.

Dylan comes back in the middle of the first week of March, just shows up on Tyler's front stoop one drizzly afternoon and rings the doorbell. Tyler answers the door shirtless, and Dylan gives him the most searching once-over he's ever been on the receiving end of before climbing him like a tree, the door standing open as he pulls Tyler's mouth to his own, kissing him deep and hungry. 

“Fucking  _ missed _ you, man.” Dylan pulls back and releases him, kicking the door shut and toeing off his shoes.

Tyler laughs in surprise, raising incredulous eyebrows when Dylan gives him a dirty look.

“What, you don't believe me? Fucking  _ get over here _ , and I'll prove it to you.”

Tyler laughs again, but comes closer, lets himself be reeled into Dylan's orbit. Dylan's grousing about idiots who don't know their own attractiveness, so Tyler shuts him up with his mouth.

They fuck on the couch, Dylan straddling him and pulling their cocks together while Tyler hangs on to his narrow hips for dear life. It's just this side of painful, no real lube and foreplay that consists of some really intense kissing while Dylan haphazardly flings clothes around, and a couple neck hickies that are going to be hard to cover tomorrow. It's fast, and not the best, but they both get off, and Tyler can't bring himself to complain when his arms are full of post-orgasmic, completely limp Dylan. He could, he realizes, really get used to this. 

Dylan eventually climbs off him and goes to steal some sweatpants while Tyler orders pizza. They watch part of a Criminal Minds marathon while they inhale some BBQ chicken slices, Dylan sprawled across the couch, one leg across Tyler's, his hands moving as he offers commentary on the idiocy of the criminal on-screen.

They end up dozing for a little bit, the pizza and the pre-pizza sex combining to pull them under as the evening goes dark and the TV flickers in front of them. 

Tyler comes to around 8:30, clicks off the TV, shoves Dylan's foot to the floor with a thump. Dylan cracks an eye and glares at him.

“You staying?”

He tries not to put into anything into the question. It's a request for information, that's all. Sure, he'd  _ like _ it if Dylan stayed; he hasn't seen him in a couple months, after all. But he's sure Dylan's got things he needs to do, people he needs to see. He might want to sleep in his own bed after being in a hotel for weeks and weeks. 

“Yeah.” Dylan squints blearily at him. “You mind?”

Tyler smiles slowly. “Nah. Come on.” He holds out a hand and stands up, taking Dylan's fingers in his and hauling him upright. “It's 11:30 for you, and I was up at 5. Bedtime.”

“Ugh, 5 am, Jesus Christ, Hoech.” 

Tyler just laughs.

–

He gets them into the shower; they're both still sticky from before, and now have added pizza grease, and besides, he'd been working out when Dylan showed up. His house isn't that big, but his bathroom is nice; full-size shower stall with plenty of room and adjustable sprays. He's got a nice tub, too, but if they get in that, they might not come out till morning, and he hates getting pruney. It makes his skin crack and hurt. 

He gets the water going and strips Dylan down, pushes him in. Chucks his own clothes into the laundry bin, and steps in behind Dylan. They take turns soaping each other up, and he can't really say he's ever soaped another guy's balls before, but it's pretty funny how it seems to tickle when he does Dylan's, so he keeps going just to watch him squirm. Dylan gives him a shampoo mohawk and laughs about it a lot, so Tyler gets some good suds going with the bar soap and rubs them into Dylan's scruff so he can have a bubble beard. Dylan stands in the corner and strokes it, striking different thinking poses, and Tyler finally has to drag him back under the water to rinse off.

It's so much like how it was when they lived together (albeit with more simultaneous nudity) that Tyler feels like he's falling through time, brushing his teeth at the sink with Dylan using the fresh spare he always keeps in the cupboard. Tyler shaves, ignoring the faces Dylan makes in the mirror as he lathers up and draws the razor over his cheeks, his chin. Halfway through Dylan turns him around to lean his back against the sink, takes the razor out of his hand. It's electrifying, watching the look of concentration on Dylan's face as he drags the blade along Tyler's jawline. His tongue gets caught between his teeth, warm eyes focused, and Tyler's towel is definitely not going to hold up for much longer. 

Dylan finishes the job, wipes the lather from his face with a washcloth, and tips Tyler's head this way and that to make sure he's gotten everything. Apparently satisfied, he drapes the washcloth over the towel rack and leans in to press a lingering kiss to Tyler's cheek, dragging his nose across the plane of his cheekbone as he pulls away grinning.

Something thuds in Tyler's chest, and he can't look away. 

“C'mon, sourwolf. It's past our boring, grown-up bedtime.” Dylan drops his towel, and heads out the bathroom door.

–

Tyler catches him before he makes it to the bed, sliding his arms in under Dylan's and pulling him back against his bare chest. Tyler's towel is caught between them, utterly failing at preserving anything like modesty. 

Dylan lets his damp head fall back against Tyler's shoulder, his neck arcing pale in the gloomy light of the streetlights that's filtering through the fog and venetians. Tyler rubs his freshly smooth cheek along the exposed tendons, smiling as Dylan  _ hmms _ deep in his throat. He lets his hands roam freely, tracing the wing of Dylan's delicate clavicle across his firm chest, down his sides to his hip, which fits as well into the curve of Tyler's hand as his head once had, the shapes of him made up of complementary pieces that please every sense. He sets his mouth to Dylan's shoulder, the taste of soap dissolving on his tongue to reveal deeper notes of skin and heat. 

They'd fooled around in Thailand plenty after that first night; when things hadn't turned weird, they'd both seemingly shrugged and figured why the hell not. Tyler hasn't dated anyone more than a couple times in years, really—just hadn't run into the right person, and had been content enough not to really bother looking. Dylan, he's not really sure—Tyler knows he had a serious girlfriend for a while a few years back, but she's been clearly out of the picture for a while now, and he gets papped with a string of up and coming young starlets on a semi-regular basis, but never more than once or twice with the same girl. 

Tyler's experience with guys is small and spread out—there was Mark from his college baseball team, but that had never really amounted to anything beyond heated make-outs and some groping. JR'd figured him out and set up him with Jacob, which had been both fun and informative, but aside from some frenzied hookups, that'd never really gone anywhere either. He'd met Colm during his off-the-grid backpacking trip in Ireland, and they'd enjoyed several weeks of each other's' company as they went from Kilkenny to Cork to Galway, but there was never any pretense of it moving outside the moment, and that was fine with both of them. 

Dylan...Tyler has no clue. He clearly doesn't have any qualms about the whole naked-with-another-dude thing, but Tyler has no idea what he's done with whom, when. He's only ever been connected with women as far as Tyler's seen, but that really means nothing in Hollywood.

He doesn't care, is the thing. Dylan is addictive; their friendship has picked up like it never dropped off. They text all the time, talk on the phone when it's convenient. He knows that Dylan's been working too hard for a few years now, that he's a private guy to begin with, but the toll of fame has pressed him into reticence. He wants to be there for Dylan, wants to see him succeed as far as he can go, wants to make sure he gets enough sleep, and has someone to laugh with, and shout about the Mets. He wants to congratulate him when he does well, and commiserate when something doesn't go according to plan. And if somehow all of this comes with Dylan breathing open mouthed to Tyler's bedroom ceiling, wrapping his large strong hands around Tyler's wrists and hanging on? Well. Tyler's not man enough to turn him down.

Dylan gets a hand back onto his hip, pulling Tyler's groin firm against his ass, making Tyler jerk minutely with surprise. Tyler lets his fingers wander until his left hand finds a nipple, which he pulls on, laughing as Dylan squirms back against him. He lets his other hand drift down, stroking at the gentle indentation where Dylan's stomach meets the diagonal line of his hip.

There's a sudden yank, and the terrycloth barrier deserts him, making him gasp with the sudden feel of his dick pressed against the smooth warmth of Dylan's ass. 

“Slowpoke,” Dylan mutters into his ear as he turns and grabs Tyler's shoulders, tripping him onto the bed where he bounces hard, laughing as he lands. Dylan's immediately straddling him, digging a punitive finger into his ribs until he's wriggling and helpless with laughter. “I know you're an old man, Ty, and some things move more slowly at your advanced age.” He's got his weight expertly pinning Tyler to the bed, and even though Tyler's still got the advantage in terms of muscle mass, he's got no leverage to use it, especially with Dylan's clever fingers still prodding at his side. “But I'd think you'd want to get laid before you die.” 

Dylan's grin is bright white in the darkness, and he punctuates his final statement by flipping Tyler over with one quick move, landing them in the middle of the mattress, his weight centered in the small of Tyler's back, one hand between his shoulder blades and the web between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand holding at the nape of Tyler's neck.

Tyler lets him keep the upper hand without a struggle; Dylan's bulk on him is warm and comforting, and for all his impatient talk, Dylan is stroking along Tyler's skin like it's precious, his hands tracking the insides of Tyler's arms, fingers tracing a gentle apology to his teased ribcage. The tables have been turned, Dylan's hands mapping the topographic expanse of Tyler's back and shoulders like he's reading braille, finding the line from shoulder to skull, pressing the pads of his fingers firmly into the base of his head and making him moan. 

It's the first time they've done this in one of their houses, in their home state, and it feels both completely new, and like something they've done a thousand times. The wet push of Dylan's mouth on Tyler's waist is so familiar, the feel of him elbowing his legs open, the damp warmth of Dylan's palm in the middle of his back. Dylan settles his weight over Tyler's legs, capturing one of Tyler's hands in his own. He digs his thumbs in, rubbing the tension out until Tyler's fingers are limp and still, then bends his mouth to it, sucking each finger into his mouth and twisting around it with his tongue. Tyler's given up on stifling whatever's coming out of his mouth; Dylan's already seen him stupid on lack of sleep, bleeding fake blood from a thousand wounds, stumbling over dialogue for the umpteenth time. If anything's going to drive him away, sex noises are probably not going to be it. 

Dylan sucks on his index finger, and the sensation goes straight to Tyler’s dick, making him roll his hips mindlessly against the sheets. There's a muted clicking sound, and Tyler angles his head around to see that Dylan's found the lube that lives under the spare pillow, and chuckles. The grin Dylan gives him is wicked, but his touch is gentle as he pushes Tyler's knees up under his body, maneuvering him until he's on his knees with his face on the pillow, thighs slightly spread and arms out long. 

Dylan drapes himself over Tyler's back and rubs a blurt of lube into Tyler's hand before guiding it beneath his body and wrapping it encouragingly around his cock. Tyler has to shift a little; he's not as flexible as Dylan thinks he is, but Dylan's chewing on the bottom of his ear lobe, murmuring words of reassurance and praise, so he wiggles his thighs a little wider, and decides that he can just be stiff tomorrow, because Dylan lying on him and telling him how wonderful he is while he begins slowly pulling on his cock is really probably the best thing to happen to him thus far this year. 

He gets a rocking motion going, the mattress going smoothly with him as he undulates in no particular hurry, and Dylan pulls back, slides down. His mouth on Tyler's arch is surprising, but the snick of the lube cap followed by his fingers on Tyler's sac is nothing short of a revelation. He can hear Dylan breathing through his opened mouth, opens his eyes to see him, hair in complete disarray, cheeks flushed and lips parted as he wraps his slicked hand around himself. He smiles when he catches Tyler's eye, quick and warm, then drapes himself across Tyler's back again, one hand coming to brace itself near the back of Tyler's head, the other pressing his slippery cock into the crevice between the backmost tops of Tyler's thighs. 

The moan that falls from Dylan's mouth is straight up pornographic, and Tyler can't help but laugh breathlessly, the sound turning into a gasp as the head of Dylan's dick begins pressing against the back of his balls. He gets himself up a little on his shoulders, turning his face so that he can press his cheek against Dylan's forehead. He wishes he could get their mouths together, but the angle is wrong for it, yet right in too many other ways to want to change it. Dylan's still mumbling half-obscured sweet nothings into his shoulder, the rolling of his hips slowly increasing in tempo and force. 

It's a long time in the building, sweat beading and rolling between them in spite of the half-opened window, but every moment is stretched out, full of pleasure permeating every cell, every breath. The end comes inevitably, Tyler freezing, clenching up as the wave breaks over him, whimpering into the pillow and gasping as release washes up from his toes to the crown of his head. Dylan gets his hands on Tyler's hips and stutters his way to a halt just behind him, his hips locking into place as he moans deep and rough into the space between Tyler's shoulder blades. 

They hold for a moment, then collapse, Dylan falling to the side to sprawl on his back, breathing hard, and Tyler forcing his knees to unlock and legs to stretch out, too blissfully high on endorphins to care about the pins and needles working their way through his calves. He flops his head over to the other side so he can face Dylan, pressing his lips against the ball of Dylan's shoulder.

Dylan twitches a hand over, and tucks it into Tyler's. It's wet with sweat and disgustingly sticky with lube and jizz. Tyler curls his fingers into it, and falls asleep smiling.

–

No one seems to think anything of him not dating anyone; he's not a big enough star that anyone particularly cares, and all the romances he's had in the past have been pretty low-key, so no one's really looking to him for drama. Dylan still goes out every fairly regularly, but he goes in groups these days, for the most part. Sometimes with Posey, sometimes with his sister, sometimes with a couple buddies from the Maze Runner trilogy. He apparently hasn't been photographed with a date-like person in a while, though, which Tyler wouldn't have thought to notice except for the headline JR texts him on Entertainment Weekly's gossip blog: “Is Mordecai’s Legend heartthrob Dylan O'Brien keeping a secret lover on the side?? Our sources say he's finally shacking up with Ms Right, and doesn't want to jinx it!”

Tyler kind of doesn't know whether to laugh, cry, or be horrified, but he must make some kind of noise, because Dylan appears behind him to see what he's looking at. Tyler clicks away, frowning as he dies again on the latest version of Dylan's favorite iphone game. 

Dylan claps him on the shoulder and snickers. “You'll get there, big guy. Never there enough to beat  _ me _ , of course, but you'll get there.”

Tyler rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue at Dylan's retreating form, then flicks his screen back to the text.

It was bound to get noticed eventually, he supposes. Whether or not it will be a thing is kind of between Dylan and his management. 

They're not...dating, he doesn't think. They're friends, good friends, who genuinely care about each other, and who also have kind of a lot of really good sex. But...they've never talked about it, and he doesn't think either of them really wants to. It's good, the way it is. Why define it, why take the risk of labeling and calling it out?

He looks across the room to where Dylan's loading the dishwasher, mouthing along obnoxiously to whatever's playing in his headphones. It's his call, Tyler thinks. Dylan's the one with more to lose, and Tyler's happy enough to just be along for the ride. 

–

“Tyler! Hey, Tyler Hoechlin!”

Tyler groans internally, but turns politely and smiles at the petite blonde woman who has suddenly appeared beside him. He’s pretty sure he recognizes her from some small-time entertainment news show. Must be a slow day, he thinks, if they’re down to trying to talk him up at Starbucks.

“You have a moment for a few questions?” She’s young, and earnest, and has a fistfull of notes in her hand; he can’t find it in him to turn her down, so he nods briefly, even though the last thing he really wants to do is talk to some tabloid journalist.

“A minute.”

“I’ll be quick!” She rifles through her notes and produces a page with a flourish. “Ok, question number one: So far, fans are raving about your new show! What do you say- do you think that Flashback to Paradise will be renewed for a second season?”

He gives her his best publicity smile. “I certainly hope it will.”

“Do you have any other projects you’re working on right now?” She’s bouncing very slightly in place as she marks down an answer in a scribbled shorthand.

“Nothing that I’m ready to talk about.”

She tips her head to the side like a bird and smiles up at him. “I heard that Dylan O’Brien came to see you on set; are you two still close?”

Tyler goes still for a split second, then forces himself to relax, to shrug. “Yeah, he came by. He’d never been to Thailand, and he had some free time.” He takes a breath, watching her hang on his every word. “We see each other every so often.”

“What do you know about Dylan’s mystery girl?” she asks excitedly, long curls shivering on her shoulders. “Can you confirm that they’re together?”

“No,” Tyler frowns, “and also, isn’t that a little intrusive? If Dylan were dating someone, he’s got a right to his privacy.”

“So I can put you on the record as unable to confirm that Dylan’s been hooking up with your former PI Northlands co-star, Callie Weston?”

“Huh?” he answers, confused at the turn this conversation has taken.

“Ohh,” her eyes get big, “you haven’t seen the pictures! Okay, well,” she taps madly at her phone, nearly dropping her notes in the process, “thanks for your time!”

“You’re...welcome,” he says, and watches as she dashes out the door. He takes a long sip of his coffee, and heads to his car, thoughts tumbling over one another in an incoherent tangle.

-

He doesn’t really mean to look up the photos when he gets home, but he’s online anyway, and he’s waiting for a text, and he just… does. It’s easy, just a Google search away and there they are. 

It’s Dylan, alright, coming out of a club with his hand up and sunglasses on. Tucked under his arm, with one hand around his waist and the other one clutched into his shirt low on his stomach is a girl. It’s hard to recognize her: the wind is blowing in the picture, and her hair is covering most of her face, but. He spent a solid year working with her, looking at publicity photos and retakes, so he knows the shape of her well enough. 

There’s a feeling in his stomach he can’t quite reconcile, a tightness that makes him feel anxious, slightly seasick. His ears ring, and he wonders if he’s coming down with something. Or maybe he had something bad to eat.

He flips through a couple more of the images. They’re all taken in series, not much changes from frame to frame. Dylan is actively trying to block the shots, which is normal; he hates the paparazzi with a passion. Callie is laughing, though, as she hangs on to him, and the final shot catches the corner of her mouth as the angle of the wind shifts, the corner of her lipstick smeared. 

He closes the browser tab. He’ll go for a run, he thinks, and then he’ll go to bed.

-

“I didn’t know you and Callie were friends,” he says a few weeks later over lunch, and winces at how forced it sounds.

“Hmm?” Dylan looks up at him, confused. 

"Callie Weston,” Tyler says, feeling like an idiot. He doesn’t know why he’s bringing this up; it’s not his business who Dylan hangs out with anyway. It’s not his business who Dylan goes to clubs with, who Dylan leaves clubs with, who Dylan...

“Oh, Callie,” Dylan says, smiling. “Yeah, we were in a thing together for five minutes that never got picked up. God, she’s great.”

“Yeah,” Tyler says, “she’s great.”

“She was in that detective show with you, wasn’t she?” Dylan waves his fork excitedly. “She’s so _funny_ , I don’t know how you ever had a straight face on set.”

“Yeah, she was.” Tyler nods, and takes another bite. “I guess I haven’t really kept up with her much.” Or at all, he thinks, though apparently she keeps up with  _ some  _ former co-stars.

“Mm,” Dylan smiles again, “I saw her the other day. Really fun to catch up.”

Tyler chews, swallows, and thinks of Callie’s open, laughing, mouth. 

“That’s nice,” he says, and takes another bite.

-

They're hanging out at Linden’s and Susan’s late in June, Dylan out in the backyard horsing around with Posey and his kids. Tyler's leaning against the wall of the house, nursing a beer and talking to Linden about their new respective shows. 

“Another cop role, huh?”

Linden pulls a face. “Yeah. At least it keeps the time in the makeup chair down. If I just show up looking like me, that's enough.” Tyler laughs, fingers playing with the edges of the label. “Besides, better this than the other role I was up for. I am  _ not _ old enough to play grandfathers, thank you very much.”

“Well,  _ technically _ ...”

Linden thumps him on the leg. “Just you wait till you have to play your first daddy role to some pretty princess teenage star. See how you like it then.”

“Aw, c'mon.” Tyler grins. Linden's the most fun to tease. He pretends to get angry, but he's a real softie. “You know JR loved Crystal.”

Linden  _ hmphs _ into his beer. “JR is 15 years older than Crystal. You wanna talk about technicalities, I suppose you can, but playing the parent to someone who could be your sibling is awkward for all concerned.” His eyes find Dylan rolling on the ground buried under small children and a dog. “At least Dylan was plausibly my kid.” He smiles. He's always had a soft spot for Dylan, and vice versa. It's the fun part about showbiz, Tyler thinks. Sometimes the relationships take you by surprise. Linden turns to look at him more closely. “And you.  _ Son _ . What's up with the two of you, anyway?”

It's Tyler's turn to look searchingly into the depths of his bottle. It's nearly empty.

“Let me grab another beer.”

Linden gives him a sharp look. “That good, huh? Bring me one, too.” 

Damn. There goes his chance to get “accidentally” caught up talking to someone inside. But he can't very well say no at this point, so he takes Linden's proffered bottle and heads inside. 

He thinks about what to say as he fishes in the fridge for the cold bottles, replacing the two he pulls out with two from the room-temperature selection on the floor nearby. He hasn't really talked to anyone about his and Dylan's...thing, because, really, what would he say? Everyone knows they're friends. It's somewhat public knowledge that they've become close again; they show up places together sometimes, Dylan's openly affectionate with him, the way he is with Posey. And it's also clear, since the photos were published last month, that Dylan's not restricting himself, even if Tyler has been, but...Tyler doesn't blame him for that. They're fuck buddies, he guesses, who are also best friends, and... _ fuck his life, _ it's just complicated to explain. 

He fills Linden's glass until the thin layer of foam is at the top, grabs the other cold one for himself, and heads back outside. Maybe he can just...be nonchalant.

–

“So, what you're telling me is, you and Dylan spend a lot of time together. You have a lot of...sex. You really like him.” Linden squints at Tyler where he's now slumped on the deck, hunched over the remains of his fourth beer. He'd maybe downed this last one a little too quickly. “...explain to me what part of this does not constitute dating.”

Tyler groans. “The part where we're not  _ dating _ , Lin.” He gestures limply with a hand, then shoves it into his hair. “That was never on the table.”

“How do you know?”

“Why would it be? Dylan dates women, and I don't blame him for it. Hell, he was in EW just a month ago with someone new, it was all the buzz.”

“So you're just...” Linden makes a sharp movement with his hands. He looks angry, and Tyler doesn't really understand why. “You're just okay with this?”

“Well, yeah.”

“No, you're not.”

“I am, actually.” Now Tyler's starting to feel a little ruffled himself, takes a minute to haul in a deep breath. Dusk is falling, and Dylan's helping Posey corral the kids and head them inside. He looks up and catches Tyler's eye, gives him a blinding smile. Tyler can't help but smile back.

It's not lost on Linden, who heaves a gusty sigh. “Oh, god. It's like that, huh.”

Tyler scowls. “It is what it is. I'm his friend, first and foremost. I care about him. It's...” He meets Linden's pale eyes with his own. “It's enough.”

“Tyler...” Linden leans back in his deck chair and pulls a hand over his face. “You do realize you're in love with him.”

Tyler thinks for a moment. He hadn't really consciously put that term to it, but...really it's been true for the better part of a decade at this point. It's not a result of their more recent involvement. He shrugs. “Old news.”

“Tyler, listen to me. You are getting a shit deal here, and it's only because you're not willing to say something.”

“It's complicated.” He shrugs again. “I'm happy enough with what he gives me. I don't want to put him in a place where he has to make a choice. What we have right now...it's easy.”

“Do you know how much bullshit that is?” Linden's leaning back forward now. “Do you honestly think that he would choose anything but you? You're smarter than this, Tyler. Why the martyr act?”

“I'm not a martyr, Lin. I'm not unhappy. And I don't know if he would choose me, but I don't want him to have to make the choice. Why can't it just be this? What's so wrong with just letting it be?”

He doesn't realize he's waving his beer around until a bit sloshes out onto his fingers. He puts it back between his feet, wipes his hand on his shorts. 

“Because it's going to hurt you, Hoech. Because it already  _ is _ hurting you, even if you're too in denial to acknowledge it.” Linden shakes a finger in his face, levering himself up out of the chair and picking up his empties. “You listen to me, Tyler. You need to speak up. Put your cards on the table. This undefined pining thing you've got going,” he makes an annoyed gesture, “is going to end badly for both of you.”

Linden claps him on the shoulder and heads through the sliding door. Tyler lets his head thunk back against the side of the house, and closes his eyes.

–

“You going to Adelaide's wedding?”

Tyler's brushing his teeth when Dylan pushes into the bathroom, waving a piece of cardstock in his hand. Tyler spits, rinses, spits again.

“Yeah. It's on my calendar. What, two weeks?”

“Yeah.” Dylan's turning the piece of paper over in his hands, fiddling with the edges. “You taking anyone?”

Tyler pats his face with the towel. He's honestly not sure what Dylan wants him to say, so he just goes for honest. 

“Wasn't planning on it.” He puts the toothpaste back next to to the toothbrush holder and brushes past Dylan into the other room. “Were you?”

“Nah. People always read so much into it if you ask them to go to a wedding with you, you know?” He grins, pushes Tyler down so he's sitting on the bed, chest bare and sleep pants untied. He settles himself onto Tyler's lap, knees straddling Tyler's thighs. Tyler leans back on his hands. Dylan's not a small person; he's still maybe an inch shorter than Tyler, but he's filled out as an adult. He's probably actually bigger than Tyler at this point, when Tyler's not actively working to stay stupidly muscled for a show. It's Sunday night, and they both have shoots coming up soon, but Tyler'd managed to put off going to Thailand for the shooting of season two until after Adelaide's wedding. He guesses Dylan's had it worked into his schedule too. “I was thinking, though, if you wanted, we could drive up together? It's only what, about an hour, hour and a half, but there's no point taking two cars.”

Tyler bites his lip, lets his hands settle on Dylan's hips, shifting his weight under him. “You trying to make me your plus-one?”

Dylan rolls his eyes, then his hips. “Hard to make you my plus-one when we're both individually invited, idiot. Just say no, if you don't want to.”

Tyler reaches over to click off the lamp, lets himself fall backward onto the bed, Dylan going with him. “No, that makes sense. It'll save on gas.”

–

The day of the wedding is bright and hot, but given that Adelaide's family is from the often overly-warm down-under, he doesn't imagine any of them are too prone to overheating. He tugs at his collar with a finger.  _ He _ , on the other hand...the wedding is supposed to start at four, but he might die of heat stroke before then.

He sits next to Ian, it turns out. There's no seating chart for the wedding itself, but they get in a little early, and Dylan ends up swept away with Posey for something while Tyler plays with his phone. Ian finds him, and they go find themselves white folding chairs in a row relatively near the front, and then the others get full, and that's that. He's not really sure where Dylan ended up, but it's not like they came together, so it's fine.

The ceremony itself is beautiful—simple, but heartfelt; nothing silly or superfluous, just dignified and sweet. The costume designer for Reign got called in for wedding dress duty, and did a glorious job—Adelaide is stunning, of course, and somehow manages to look regal, but not even slightly fussy. Her groom looks like he has absolutely no clue how he got so lucky, and Tyler fervently hopes that he maintains that sentiment long term, because if that's an indication of how he treats her, it's all for the best. 

They kiss, and everyone applauds, and then it's on to the reception. The folding chairs get cleared away,  the bridal arch remaining at the edge of the lawn, but catering tables are set up along the perimeter, along with small clumps of chairs where you can sit while you nibble on your hors d'oeuvres or eat your plate of fancy catered food. There are lanterns strung along in the trees surrounding the open grassy area, and he can see some men in serving outfits laying out modular wooden flats for a dance floor. There's a string quartet playing gently in the shade, and what looks like a DJ setting up across from them for later. 

It's lovely, and once he's loosened his tie and shed his jacket, he feels much better. He finds himself a glass of the sparkling lemonade going around and sips it, gets looped into conversation with an elegant older woman who turns out to be Adelaide's great-aunt. They talk and talk, and he ends up with an ongoing invitation to stay with the family if he ever makes it to Oz. He invites her in turn to come visit in Thailand, because it turns out she's a fan of his current show, and presses him for all the possible details he can give about the upcoming season, and then catches the arm of another passing relative to squeal about it with her. 

He doesn't see Dylan much; he's over by the DJ tables with Posey and another couple of guys they both seem to know. It's probably for the best, Tyler thinks, and besides, he's having a lovely time with his growing flock of well-heeled and sharp-minded Kane women. He rolls up his shirt-sleeves and fetches them all a round of champagne as the lanterns get lit, and they coo over him again. 

It's the kind of attention he enjoys; light-hearted and easy. Sure, they're ogling his ass, but no more so than they were the cute catering boys, and they couldn't care less about his minor fame. They like his show, and want to talk about characters and story points with him, and have clearly discussed it all with each other before, devolving at times into rehearsed arguments on character motivations while he goes for another round and passes it out, letting them pat him absently on the cheek in thanks. 

He sees Posey and Dylan arguing at one point, Posey going so far as to thump Dylan with the backs of his hands on the chest. Dylan looks shocked, and responds with wide-flung hands and a verbal tirade. He thinks briefly of going to interrupt, but Posey's older daughter beats him to it, so he stays where he is, and eats another mini-quiche before turning to tell a story about Jerome to great-aunt Delia. 

The sun starts to set, the lanterns glowing softly as strings of lights flicker on around the tables and dance floor. Adelaide and her new husband re-appear, and the string quartet launches into a slow waltz as they take the floor for their first dance. They're luminous, and maybe Tyler's had a bit too much champagne, because his heart is suddenly stuck in his throat watching them.

He's not old, not really, but he's old enough now that he knows he wants this, someday, somehow. He doesn't care about the trappings, but the moment, that feeling of being with someone you love who loves you back, being with them so completely that you're lost in them no matter how many people surround  you. That they're there for you, morning and night, day after day. He's no idealist; he knows that marriage, that any serious relationship, is more than that; that it's not perfect, that people are people, and any partnership has its ups and downs. 

But. He still. He still wants it. He wants it with an intensity he’s never felt before, a sudden sureness riveting him to his seat as his heart pounds in sympathetic surprise.

He catches sight of Dylan across the dance floor, and maybe it's the moment, or maybe it's the champagne, but he feels like the distance between them is nothing, that every emotion he's feeling in that moment is written across his face: the hope, the desire, the steadfast love he’s always felt for Dylan, and the bone-deep yearning he’s kept tucked away since all those years ago. The desperation he feels to be near him, always; the joy that fills him whenever Dylan is near. All the potential and possibility that's been hanging between them in the last ten years, everything they could have been, everything he suddenly realizes he wants them to be, is there to be seen in the look in his eyes, the set of his mouth.

Dylan looks up, catches his eyes, and makes a face of horrified surprise. 

There's a rushing noise in Tyler’s ears, and he feels like he might throw up. He knows now what he wants, knows it with a startling clarity, but he hadn’t yet got to the part of asking himself what Dylan might want. And for all that they’re close, for all that Dylan cares for him, he can’t ask Dylan to be give up his life to fill Tyler’s dreams. It’s unfair to think even for a moment that he could, and the guilt of it sucks him down as he rises from his seat, wanting nothing more to hide from the embarrassment of his sudden exposure. The look on Dylan's face is burned into his mind, even as he shuts his eyes and turns away, trying not to make a disturbance as he goes. The quartet is still playing, and the light is fading as he stumbles past the edge of the crowd into the space between the trees and the side of the house that's been rented out to host the bridal party. He can hear someone crashing along behind him, so he keeps going into the treeline.

“Tyler!  _ Tyler _ !! Would you  _ fucking _ just...”

He pauses to catch a breath, seeing stars in front of his eyes, and Dylan grabs his arm to spin him around. 

“..wait?”

Tyler's breathing like he's been running for miles, but Dylan's barely winded and staring at him with a mixture of shock and anger. 

“What the  _ hell _ , man? You lock eyes with me after avoiding me all day, and then fucking take off like a bat out of hell? What gives?”

Tyler shakes Dylan's hand off his arm and pulls a hand over his face. “D...”, he starts, and his throat closes up. “Dylan,” he tries again, “I...we...I can’t do this anymore. It’s not right, it’s not fair to you, and I think...I think it’s not fair to me.” He pulls himself up straight, concentrating on pulling air all the way down to the bottom of his lungs, letting his face settle into calm lines. “I think we need to not see each other for a while,” he says, and it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. 

Dylan's got this look on his face like someone's punched him in the kidneys, but Tyler forces himself not to cave. All he wants is to take Dylan in his arms and say he was wrong, that he doesn’t mean it, that Dylan can have whatever he wants from him, but he when he closes his eyes he sees the look of shock turning to dismay on Dylan’s face, and knows it’s the only choice. Turns out Linden was right after all, he thinks bitterly. This was only ever going to hurt. 

“God  _ damn _ , Posey really was right.” Dylan scrubs a hand over his face, and looks at Tyler like his heart is breaking. “You're in love with me.”

“Dylan, please _ , _ ” Tyler manages to grit out before he turns to walk away. He doesn’t want to laugh it off, doesn’t want to have to downplay it. 

He's stopped by Dylan's hand fisting into the sleeve of his shirt and hauling him back around, pushing him up against a tree.

“No, Ty, stand still and  _ listen  _ to me for once,” Dylan releases his grip and takes a step back, running his hands through his hair in frantic irritation, “You don’t get to just decide what’s happening between us without...without at least talking to me about it.  _ That’s  _ what’s not fair.”

“D…,” Tyler breathes, turning his face away., “don’t do this. Just let me go.”

“Goddammit,  _ listen _ to what I am saying. I didn't  _ know  _ that this, that we,” Dylan gestures frantically between them, “that it meant anything to you. Ok? It was just...fuck, I mean, I was  _ so _ in love with you when we started working together, you don't even know. I mean, I guess it started as hero worship or something, but fuck, I just...I couldn't stay away from you, didn't even want to  _ try _ . I wanted to be with you all the time, and you...you were so good. You were kind to me, you didn't treat me like a little kid with a crush, you just ignored it, and we were  _ friends _ .” Dylan's the one who sounds winded now, pacing back and forth. Tyler has no idea where this is going, but the sounds of the DJ are filtering down from the lawn, so they've probably not been missed. “And then...we weren't in scenes or hanging out on set together as much, and Teen Wolf stopped filming, and we didn't really hang out, and...and I fucking  _ missed _ you man, but I figured you were doing your successful grown-up thing, and probably it was for the best if we just grew apart, like people do.”

Dylan's face is tragic, his eyes big in the growing dark. He reaches out a hand in an aborted touch, but lets it fall between them. 

“And then you turned up at that party, and you seemed like you might want to see me, and I just...I didn't know what to do with that. And then we started texting, and we finally managed to hang out, and then when I saw you in Thailand...it was just so  _ easy _ , Ty, to be with you. That was all I really wanted, I think, was just to be around you. And I didn't think about what that meant, and I'm so fucking sorry, because we should have had this conversation a hell of a long time ago. But we didn't, and it's because I was just thinking with my dick, or thinking with the side of me that doesn't like to rock the boat, I guess.”

Tyler opens his mouth to respond, because it's starting to kill him to hear Dylan like this. He can't decide if he wants to run away again, or pull Dylan close to him, or shout back.

“No, no, let me finish.” Dylan holds up a hand, and Tyler closes his mouth again. “You acted so funny for a bit about me getting photographed with Callie, like you believed those stories about us being together? But that didn’t make any sense, I thought you  _ knew  _ I’d never fuck around on you, but then I thought maybe you liked her yourself, or something, and you didn't seem to want to say anything about it, so I just let it go. But then tonight, Posey cornered me.” Dylan's hands are white as they fly around in the deepening gloom. “He asked me...” Dylan takes a shuddering breath. “He congratulated me on finally coming out about our relationship, by showing up at the wedding together. And I told him we weren't in one. And he acted like I was joking, so I got annoyed with him, and told him again that we weren't. And then he got mad at me, told me I was stringing you along, that you'd been in love with me...” Dylan pauses and takes another breath before continuing, his voice shaking. “He said you'd been in love with me for years, any idiot could see it, and that if I wasn't man enough to figure my shit out and treat you right, instead of using you, keeping you like some shameful secret, then I wasn’t the kind of person he’s always thought I was. That maybe being a star has changed me into an asshole he doesn’t really know anymore.”

Tyler opens his mouth again, but Dylan's hand is already up. 

“Nope. Not done.” He studies Tyler's face carefully, then nods once. “I didn't believe him. I didn't  _ want  _ to believe him, because if that was true, if you'd been in love with me, if you'd knowingly been just...letting me  _ use  _ you like that, then what kind of person does that make me? That I would treat one of my oldest and closest friends like they're what, a convenience?” He looks away. “I didn't want to think that I'd hurt you. But then I looked over at you, and your face, god, Ty...you looked like you thought I’d hung the moon in the sky, and I realized that everything I'd been afraid I'd done was true, all my worst fears confirmed. And then you looked at me like I'd just hauled off and punched you, and you ran, and... _ god _ , Tyler, I just. What is this? What have I done?”

Tyler shakes his head, reaches out a hand to clutch at Dylan's arm.

“It's not just your fault.” His voice is quiet and more shaken than he's comfortable with. “I should have said something.”

Dylan looks at him sharply. “Damn straight you should have.” He sighs gustily. “But I should have, too. It was too easy not to question it.”

Tyler nods. It was. “All I wanted was to make you happy, D. I...I knew I loved you, but I didn't realize I was  _ in _ love with you, if that helps. Not for a while. I just...wanted to be there when you needed me.” He shrugs. “For whatever. For all of it.”

Dylan nods, but he's got tears in his eyes. 

“This changes things, you know.  _ God _ , Tyler. This changes everything.”

Tyler feels his heart sink to settle in the pit of his stomach. He nods carefully.

“Ty...” Dylan steps forward into his space, settles his hands onto Tyler's waist, presses their foreheads together. “Ty, I want to do this right. But we've got a lot of history, and I've fucked up. So.” He leans in, presses his mouth to Tyler's in the sweetest, most gentle kiss they've ever shared. “So I'm going to call an Uber and go home.” Tyler starts, but Dylan shakes his head. “No, you mean more to Adelaide than I do. You stay, enjoy the wedding, and when it's over, go home. Take some time, and think about it. I mean  _ really _ think about it. Think about whether we'll actually work together in the long term. Think about what it would mean for your career, to your family, if we went public. Think about whether you even want to...be with me, or whether we should just...be friends.” He presses his mouth to Tyler's again, then backs away slowly. “Good night, Tyler. I will see you...soon. Ok?”

Tyler nods dumbly, his chest clenching desperately as he watches Dylan shove his hands into his pockets and walk away. He waits till he can't see his shape anymore, then slumps to sit on the leaf-covered ground and put his head between his knees. 

Posey finds him there half an hour later, still leaning against the tree. He crouches down next to him and sighs, then pats him on the shoulder.

“You know he's completely gone for you, right?”

Tyler nods. He guesses that's the truth that emerged from that whole conversation. 

“He is. It'll be fine. You just...it's good for you both to have some space, to get everything sorted out in your mind.” 

Tyler nods again. He feels like he's doing that a lot lately, but he's not really sure what else to do.

“C'mon, buddy. Let's get you to your car.”

Posey offers him a hand, and hauls him up, clapping him on the back in solidarity one last time as they follow his cell-phone flashlight out of the trees and to the parked cars. 

–

Tyler goes home.

Tyler goes home, and he thinks about it.

He thinks about it in the morning, when he's making breakfast for two, before realizing Dylan hasn't slept over once in the days since the wedding. Or called. Or texted. He thinks about it while he's in the shower, remembers them both being in here, remembers laughing, then gasping as Dylan moved from tickling him with the loofah to eating him out. He thinks about it on the couch, as he watches season one of Teen Wolf. He hasn't watched it in years, barely recognizes them, young as they were. He remembers the soft rasp of Dylan's buzzcut under his hand, the way his warm and sleepy weight would slump against him. 

He thinks about it when he wakes up in the morning, about what it's like to wake up with Dylan next to him, about what it would be like to wake up with Dylan next to him every day. He thinks about it when he catches Neil Patrick Harris and his husband on the red carpet as he flips through channels, their three kids standing around them and smiling. He thinks about what it would be like to go to premieres as Dylan's date, to have Dylan show up on his sets as his partner, instead of just a friend dropping by.

He thinks about it as he watches the Mets beat the Dodgers at a home game, and when he's going for a run, and as he's falling asleep at night, alone in his room.

He thinks about it.

–

He's out surfing at dawn one morning a week and a half later when it all clicks into place, and suddenly he can't wait anymore. He bails out of the wave he'd been cresting, lets his board fall from under his feet and catches it to his body, settling his chest on it and paddling into shore as the wave swells underneath him, pushing him toward land. He climbs out out of the water as the sun breaks over the mountains to the east, towels off in a hurry, and heads for the car. He can't bring himself to be less than careful with his gear, but he stows it as efficiently as possible, and is behind the wheel and on the freeway before he knows it, sand sticking between his toes and his hair crusted with salt. 

Dylan's house looks the same as it always does when Tyler pulls up, unassuming and vaguely suburban with a yard that could use some tending. He parks, sets the emergency brake, and climbs easily over the gate, only realizing after he's rung the doorbell that he's barefoot. He's not sure whether he left his sandals at the beach, or if he managed to throw them into the back of his vehicle as he left, but the question leaves his head entirely as the door opens to reveal a sleep-rumpled Dylan with a suspicious look on his face. 

Tyler stares, the moment stretching long between them as Dylan blinks slowly at him. He has pillow creases on his cheek and a cowlick standing straight up in the front of his dark hair, and he looks entirely non-plussed. Tyler has never wanted anything more than to press their bodies together, in every way, for every reason, and he's taken aback and breathless with the emotions pouring through his gut. 

“Yes?” Dylan says finally, his voice rough and tired.

“Can I...” Tyler starts, then stops and swallows. “Can I come in?”

Dylan wipes a hand down his face, sagging in the doorway just a bit before straightening up. The hurt in his eyes is palpable, and Tyler just wants to fix this, for once, for good.

“That took a while,” Dylan says carefully, his body blocking the entrance.

“Dylan,” Tyler says, turning his hands palm up and pouring every ounce of longing, love, and hope he has into his words. “Please. Can I come in?”

Dylan's eyes narrow, and he pauses, considering. Finally he straightens up, and looks Tyler dead in the eye.

“You can come in if you plan to stay.” Dylan's body is tight with resolve, his eyes dark and full of unnameable emotion.

Tyler smiles, his heart bursting with joy and hope and excitement and every good thing that Dylan has ever made him feel. He reaches out, catches Dylan's hands in his own, and steps through the doorway into the house.


End file.
